


Leaving Scars

by judes



Series: Leaving Scars [1]
Category: The Professionals
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-25
Updated: 2013-10-25
Packaged: 2017-12-30 10:59:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 69,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1017795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/judes/pseuds/judes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world ended at 2.54pm on a cold, wet Wednesday in August 1982.  Not for everyone, but for William Bodie and Raymond Doyle the world they had so painstakingly forged through years of partnership and, latterly, love, shattered in an instant.  Or so it seemed when they looked back on the events of that August day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

The world ended at 2.54pm on a cold, wet Wednesday in August 1982. Not for everyone, but for William Bodie and Raymond Doyle the world they had so painstakingly forged through years of partnership and, latterly, love, shattered in an instant. Or so it seemed when they looked back on the events of that August day.

 

Chapter One January 1982

“What is the old man playing at?” Bodie strode across Betty’s office and out into the corridor. “This is a job for the police. Not CI5.”

“You heard the man. The PM wants CI5 to investigate. And what the PM wants, she gets.” Doyle followed his partner into the rest room then headed for the kitchen bench and started to make them both a brew. As he waited for the kettle to boil, he turned to face the figure now slumped on the sofa and rifling through the folders pushed into his hands moments before by the man in charge.

“What d’you reckon? Anything in there?”

“Not a lot. Police were called in on 27 December by the housekeeper who found the bodies. Lots of lovely piccies.” Bodie spread out the reports and photographs on the dilapidated coffee table as he spoke. “CID seems to have done a fairly comprehensive job.” He indicated the increasing pile of paper. “Interviews, forensics, background checks.”

“And …?” Doyle prompted.

“And … absolutely nothing. The house was secure. No sign of even an attempted illegal entry. Nothing appears to be missing. Only the family at home. Not even a cat. I don’t get it. There’s absolutely nothing here to indicate it was anything other than a murder/suicide.”

A mug of tea appeared under his nose. Taking it, he grinned up at the man handing it to him. “Ta.”

“So where do you want to start?”

“Well, I guess we take a look at the scene of the crime … hey … you’re the copper, what do you think we should do?”

“You’re absolutely right. Shows you’ve been paying attention all these years. Knew you couldn’t be totally thick.”

“Cheeky git.” Bodie grinned again then drained his mug, passing it back, as he started to gather the papers back into their respective folders. By the time he’d finished, Doyle was already holding the door open.

“Come on then. Let’s get out of here before Cowley realises we’re still in the building.”

As Bodie joined his partner, a door opened down the corridor and a very familiar voice shouted, “Bodie! Doyle!”

“Come on.”

***** 

Simon McAllister had done well for himself. The son of a Nottinghamshire miner, he’d won a scholarship to Oxford, studied law, joined a lucrative practice in the City and, on discovering politics, had won a parliamentary seat in his home county and taken up the life of an MP. The house in Chelsea was set back from the road, surrounded by a large, manicured garden, trees shielding it from the road and now it stood empty. 

Bodie gave a dismissive wave to the lone journalist sitting in his car on the street outside the house. Whilst there was still considerable interest in the case, most journalists had moved onto more immediate crises but this one thought something might pop if he waited long enough. 

The police officer standing by the double gates, waved them through when they showed their IDs. He looked thoroughly bored with the task of keeping the curious at bay, especially as it looked as if the curious had wandered off.

Parking on the drive, Bodie stared at the blank windows. Someone had drawn all the curtains, probably to prevent the curious from seeing into the house or maybe it was out of respect for the dead.

“Are you going to sit here all day? Or are we going in? Got to start this investigation somewhere.” Doyle was getting out of the Capri as he spoke. By the time Bodie got out, his partner was striding towards the front door. Taking a moment to admire the long legs powering away from him, Bodie followed. Climbing the porch steps, Doyle paused as he reached the door, half turning, he held out his hand. “Keys!”

With a jangle, the bunch of metal dropped into his open palm. Quickly sorting through them, he selected the two he needed to open the heavy oak door. As the locks clicked, Bodie brushed passed him, muttering “Alarm”, taking the opportunity to slide a hand down a taut, jean-clad buttock.

As Bodie quickly disabled the house alarm, Doyle drew aside the heavy curtains covering the windows and flooded the hall with natural light.

“Where should we start?” asked Bodie.

“You’re the one read the file. Where were the bodies found?”

“Upstairs.”

“Upstairs it is.”

***** 

The main bedroom was at the front of the house, furnished expensively but elegantly. A large bay window overlooked the immaculate driveway and lawn. Standing just inside the door from the first floor landing, they surveyed the results of the police investigation.

“How on earth are we supposed to find anything in this?” Bodie indicated the room in front of him. “Do your Met pals always make such a mess?”

“No pals of mine. Looks like they were so determined to do a good job, they got a bit over enthusiastic. High profile case like this keeps everyone on their toes.”

“About to get even more high profile if it comes out that Maggie has set CI5 on the trail.”

“Nah. The Cow would slap a D-Notice on it.”

“True.”

“Have you got the photos?”

Taking them out of the folder he’d brought in from the car, Bodie spread them out on the king-size mattress that had been stripped of bedding but still bore the marks of the vicious crime committed in the house.

The police photographer had done a thorough job in recording the minutiae of the scene. In stark black and white the pictures showed the tragic deaths of Simon McAllister, his wife, Shona and their two children.

“Murder/suicide, eh?” queried Bodie.

“That’s what CID concluded. It certainly looks that way if what these are saying is true.”

“You don’t believe them, do you? What are you seeing that I’m not?” Bodie peered closely at the photographs. 

The first group of black and white photographs were stark images of Shona McAllister. She was sitting on the bed clothed only in her negligee, her back against the headboard, her face destroyed by a bullet, which had smashed through her nose. Blood spattered the headboard and wall behind her. A thin trickle had run down her face, dripped onto her breasts and pooled in her lap.

The second group showed Simon McAllister spread-eagled across the blanket box at the foot of the bed. A bullet had entered through the underside of his chin, exited through the back of his head, taking a goodly portion of his brain out through a large exit wound. He appeared to have been sitting when he fired the gun.

“This is what I don’t understand.” Doyle picked up one of the eight by ten glossies. Together they stared at the devastated body of a young boy. He was sprawled in the bedroom doorway, his chest blown apart by the impact of two bullets. Forensics had established that these three victims had been killed with the same gun, which had been found on the floor by Simon McAllister’s body.

“What don’t you understand?”

“Whatever McAllister’s motive for killing his wife and then himself, why shoot the boy? Most perpetrators of this type of crime either leave the children out of it or they’re killed almost gently as if the killing is a necessity but there is no need to make them suffer. What kind of father does that to his son?”

He dropped the photograph back on the bed. Gently he sifted through the rest, selecting one other. “And this, Bodie. Why this?” He passed it across to his partner.

Bodie knew what he would see but his eyes were nevertheless drawn to the image. There was the final piece of this tragedy. At first glance, the baby was sleeping. Chubby fists curled inwards, arms relaxed at his side, cheeks plumped like a hamster, the image of a healthy nine month old at rest. But this baby was dead, smothered in his cot and, according to Forensics, the weapon of choice had been the teddy bear seen propped in the corner as if keeping watch over his charge thus violated.

“So he kills his wife, kills the older boy when he comes to the bedroom to investigate, then smothers the baby and comes back in here and kills himself. I don’t buy it. I just don’t buy it.” Doyle shook his head in negation of what he was being asked to believe.

“The Forensics report agrees with you as to the timeline but the killings are too close together to be absolutely sure.”

“Damn it. There’s no evidence to suggest there was anyone else involved but my gut is screaming that this was murder, pure and simple.”

“Never pure and certainly not simple. Let’s take a look at the rest of the house.”

***** 

By the time they’d checked the remainder of the house, it seemed even more obvious that CID was correct. The detritus of family life was in evidence in every room: towels on the floor of the main bathroom, bathwater cold in the tub, dishes on the side in the kitchen, the remains of a child’s supper, two glasses and an opened bottle of wine on the coffee table in the lounge. All signs of a family relaxing at the end of the day.

Fingerprint dust still covered every surface. No one had yet been allowed into the property to clean up even though it had been ten days since the crimes had been discovered. A process of elimination had established that the family, their housekeeper, the MP’s parliamentary secretary and the local party representative had all been in the house over the Christmas period. 

An even larger number of unidentified prints were still backlogged as CID tried to find everyone who had attended the MP’s Christmas festivities. It was an almost impossible task as it had been an open house on Christmas Eve for neighbours and friends with a big family party on Christmas Day. On Boxing Day lunchtime, he’d hosted another drinks reception, which had included senior party officials plus the PM and her husband and a number of prominent people from the art world. Security had been tight for the event, which at least made those fingerprints easier to check.

Wandering into the lounge, Doyle’s attention was caught by a large landscape painting, dominating one wall. It was a view of a harbour done in oils and the detail was striking. The boats were meticulously portrayed and, in the middle of the harbour, was a large motor yacht with an indistinct figure about to climb down into a rowboat from the swim platform. Another figure remained on the yacht.

Coming up behind him, Bodie rested his chin on Doyle’s shoulder whilst taking in the vivid panorama. 

“Striking, isn’t it?” Doyle shifted slightly so that his head rested against his partner’s in a brief caress.

“It is indeed. Looks like West Bay, down by Bridport in Dorset.”

“Been there, have you?”

“I’ve been everywhere. And if we don’t get back to HQ and deliver a preliminary report to Cowley, we could be heading abroad ourselves. Right wrathful our boss at times. Particularly when the PM is involved.”

“Okay, okay. Let’s get out of here.”


	2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two January to March 1982

Three o’clock in the morning and still the city didn’t sleep. Cars rumbled in the distance, sirens wailed, voices cried out in anger and pleasure. A car engine revved loudly some way down the street, car doors opened and closed, loud laughter and shushing could be heard as the revellers made their way indoors. If Bodie hadn’t already been awake, the noise would undoubtedly have disturbed his rest. Instead he lay on his back, one arm across his eyes, trying not to disturb his lover, who’d finally dropped into a restless sleep about an hour earlier.

Having gone back to the office, they’d written a brief update and left it in Betty’s in-tray. Not feeling up to the social whirl – well, the Red Lion with the rest of the squad as it was Murph’s birthday – they’d bought a Chinese takeaway and spent the evening in front of the television, though neither of them could have said what they’d watched. The circumstances of the McAllister deaths were obviously weighing on Doyle but he was internalising it whilst trying to work out what his instincts were telling him. Bodie knew there was little point in trying to get Ray to talk before he was ready. But he was worried about the effect this case was already having on his partner.

“Bodie.” The voice was husky with what little sleep he’d achieved. “You awake?”

“Yeah. You?”

A throaty giggle answered him. Turning on his side, he opened his arms and, with a quick wriggle, he had a full body cuddle.

“What’s the matter, love?” asked Bodie as he nibbled along Doyle’s shoulder.

“I keep seeing the crime scene photos, dancing around. Can’t put my finger on why they bother me so much. It’s not as if I haven’t seen worse over the years.”

“So perhaps you need to talk it out.”

“I’m not sure that I do. These things usually percolate to the surface sooner or later.”

“Well, I’m here whenever you do feel like talking.”

“I know that, you pillock. I’m not deliberately excluding you.”

“And I know that. Was just offering my services as a listening post. Could offer other services if you’re interested.” Bodie’s attention was now wandering down Doyle’s chest.

“Mmm … what other services?”

“Oh … a whole variety. Why don’t we see what comes up?”

“Why not indeed.” And there was that gurgling chuckle again.

***** 

Over the next two months, their time was split on myriad cases, with very little to spare for each. Dribbles of information came to them on the McAllister case, filling in small gaps in the original CID investigation but never enough to answer the big questions that were still concerning Ray Doyle.

Every so often, glancing across at his partner, Bodie would see the slightly glazed eyes and brooding expression, which meant that Ray was worrying over something. As he still refused to talk about it in detail, Bodie knew it was the McAllister case.

They’d put the word out amongst their snitches as well as ex-colleagues from the Met but there was nothing much coming back until, finally, in late February, they got a call from a journalist contact and arranged to meet him in a public house on Fleet Street.

The Old Bell was well patronised by newspaper hacks and printers and it was a popular watering hole with City workers. In the early evening, it was still packed. The premises were cosy rather than elegant with leather benches, wooden tables and stools and a large open fireplace. 

Arriving early for their meet, the partners found a quieter corner complete with table and stools. Knowing it was his turn to buy a round, Bodie made his way to the bar, very aware of fond eyes watching him. The well-worn wooden floor undulated so that even the most sober patron lurched from side to side whilst crossing the bar. It was always amusing to watch how people coped, especially whilst balancing three pints but, as usual, Bodie negotiated the hazard with all the expertise that had been honed by years of assault courses.

They’d just taken their first sip when Peter Woods entered the pub. Clad in corduroy trousers, checked shirt, Barbour jacket and flat cap, he looked like a country gent out on a shoot.

“Thanks, gents.” No sooner had he placed his ample behind on a small stool than he was taking a large gulp of bitter. Wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, he belched. “Ah … I needed that.”

“Rough day, Pete?” queried Doyle. 

“Naw. Same old, same old. How go the corridors of power?”

“Secure. And that’s all you’re getting,” Bodie replied.

“Always worth asking.”

“And you called us.” There was a slight edge to Bodie’s voice. He wanted to find out why Woods had called them.

“Indeed I did. I picked up your message about Simon McAllister. Messy, very messy that.” Having dealt with the journalist for years, they knew that he couldn’t be hurried but a nudge might get him talking about what he knew. A shared glance and Bodie took the lead.

“It was nasty, Pete. And we’d like to find who did it sooner rather than later. Do you have something for us?”

“I asked around. And what I found corroborated what I already knew from my few dealings with the man.” Woods took another gulp from his pint.

“And that was …?” prompted Bodie.

“He was an honest man. Unusual, I know, in a politician. But it was a carry-over from his legal days. His reputation was spotless. He was respected on all sides, both prosecution and defence. Talk was he was in line for a silk or possibly an appointment to the bench. Then he suddenly stood for Parliament. Quite a landslide result. And he’s been making a name for himself in the House. Close to the PM too by all accounts.”

“We’ve got all that from the background checks. So he was squeaky clean … what have you got that’s different?”

“Gossip is a bit more rife about his wife, Shona. They met at university, married after graduation, produced two children … quite a gap between the two … so there was talk.” He paused to take another swig of the rapidly dwindling pint. 

“There was talk …” Bodie prompted as Doyle left his seat and headed for the bar. He was well aware of how much beer was necessary to keep Pete’s tongue well oiled.

“Yeah. Seems the perfect wife wasn’t so perfect.”

“We know about that too. CID seems to think that McAllister discovered his wife’s affair and killed her and the kids before committing suicide.”

“So that’s what they’re thinking. They’ve been very close mouthed on this whole case. Ta, mate.” This last to Doyle who’d returned bearing three more glasses. “Well, they’re wrong. Shona McAllister was a bit of a one.”

“How d’you mean?” asked Doyle.

“She was a party girl, through and through. If McAllister didn’t kill her over the first affair, he certainly wouldn’t have done so over her twentieth. Or whatever it was. He loved the woman, adored the children, was prepared to accept her on her terms. Mind you, she’d calmed down in the last couple of years. Marriage to an MP placed her under a lot of scrutiny and I reckon she’d decided the man was worth keeping. If he was ever to progress a political career, he needed a wife supporting him and avoiding scandal. I certainly haven’t picked up anything recent about her.”

“So where d’you think CID got their theory from?”

“Probably heard the old gossip and didn’t think a leopard could change its spots.”

“Thanks, Pete, that seems to tie in with what we’re getting from other sources.”

“We’d better get back to the office.” Doyle rose from the stool, clapping Peter on the shoulder. “If you hear anything else, let us know.”

“No problem. Always a pleasure.”

***** 

Walking through the entrance lobby of CI5 HQ, the partners were hailed by Anson, who was on his way out. 

“The old man’s yelling for you two.”

“Indispensable, that’s what we are,” quipped Bodie.

“Any idea what it’s about?” asked Doyle.

“Not a clue. Just heard the bellow as I was leaving the VIP Lounge.” Anson continued to exit the building.

“Well, thanks, mate. You’re a mine of information as usual.”

Bodie was ushering Doyle into the lift, using the opportunity to caress broad shoulders. As the doors slid shut, they shared a look. 

“Done anything I should know about?” asked Bodie.

“Not a thing. But probably quite a bit Cowley shouldn’t know about.”

“That’s okay then.”

***** 

Minutes later they presented themselves in Betty’s office and were pointed to the inner sanctum door.

“He was asking for you.”

“So we heard,” said Doyle.

“This place is a leaky sieve. Can’t get away with anything.” Grinning at Betty, Bodie led the way into Cowley’s office. “You wanted to see us, sir?”

“Aye … Sit down, sit down, the pair of you. You’re making the place look untidy.”

Realising that they weren’t about to get a bollocking, their stances relaxed slightly as they made themselves as comfortable as possible on the straight-backed torture devices purporting to be chairs.

Closing several folders that had been open on his desk, the head of CI5 removed his glasses before speaking. “Any progress to report on the McAllister case?”

“We’ve just met with a journalist, who had some gossip to share about Shona McAllister. But nothing that would give us any leads on the murder investigation.”

“Murder investigation, Doyle?”

“I’m still convinced that there’s more to it than the CID report states. But …”

“But …?”

“There’s nothing to go on. There’s no evidence of anyone else having been in the house on the day of the deaths. Family, friends, colleagues, all check out clean. So no suspects. Everything leads back to it being a murder/suicide. But I just don’t buy it.”

“Well, bought or not, it’s going to have to go on the back burner. I’ll update the PM and assure her we’ll keep a watching brief. File a report on the latest information but I’ve more important things for you to look into.” He handed across a folder, his expression more harried than usual. “As you know, the situation with Argentina is starting to look grim. I want you to take a look at this and check it out.” As the two men hesitated, he continued, “We’ve all got other things to concentrate on than a case that is going nowhere so see how you get on with this.”

“Yes, sir.” Bodie handed the folder to Doyle as they made their way out of the office and headed for the rest room. “Cuppa?”

“Yeah, why not?”

A couple of minutes later, ensconced in the rest room, mugs in hand, Doyle, looking thoughtful, asked, “I don’t understand why Cowley has just dropped the case. It’s not like him. He’s usually adamant that we see things through.”

“As you said, there’s nothing to go on.”

“Well, yeah, but …”

“No ‘buts’, Ray. We’ve got our orders. Let’s see what he’s landed us with now.”


	3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three April 1982

What they’d been landed with was a surveillance job on an Argentinian diplomat, who trailed them around London from embassy to embassy to Foreign Office to private homes to various international business headquarters and, finally, on 1 April to Heathrow Airport where he caught a flight back to Buenos Aires.

Once again at CI5 HQ, they filed a final report and retired to the rest room on stand-by.

An hour or so later, just as they’d started to think about packing it in for the day, Murphy stuck his head round the door.

“Ah, there you are. You’re wanted. Cowley’s office … now.”

“Okay, okay, we’re coming.”

“Not you, Doyle. Just Bodie.”

“What ’ave I done?” queried Bodie plaintively.

“Not a clue but it’s definitely you he asked for.”

“Well … I’ll just have another cuppa while you visit with the boss. Don’t be long,” said Doyle.

“Not up to me, mate.” Bodie paused as he was about to exit, grinning at his partner. “Tell the boss.”

“Oh, I think I’ll pass for now.” Doyle’s answering smile lit up his whole face.

***** 

The Bodie who returned fifteen minutes later looked as if someone had gut punched him. He was pale, sweating, but he held up a hand to forestall the inevitable questions.

“Let’s go home, love. I’ll tell you all about it but not here.”

Surprised at his partner’s uncharacteristic slip in using an endearment in public, Doyle nodded. “Okay, let’s go.”

***** 

“You’re going where?” Doyle’s voice clearly expressed his disbelief at what he’d just been told. They were standing, facing each other, in the middle of the lounge. 

They’d come back to Bodie’s flat as it was their abode of choice for this week. Maintaining two residences wasn’t easy but it was politic. Their affair wasn’t a huge secret but neither was it public knowledge. It had seemed sensible to be as discreet as possible so they divided their time between the two flats, usually spending a week at a time in each. Their belongings had gradually moved backwards and forwards until it was impossible to tell who officially lived at either place. 

Now, as Doyle glared, he was aware of an increasing distance between them though they stood only a yard apart.

“The Falklands, Ray.”

“And where the bloody hell is the Falklands? And why you? Christ, Bodie, none of this makes any sense.”

“Sit down and I’ll try to explain it to you.” Bodie gave Doyle a gentle shove towards the couch. He seemed to have recovered his equilibrium from his earlier shock. “D’you want a cuppa?”

“I want an explanation.” Still seething with frustration at not knowing what was going on, he threw himself onto the couch. “But a tea would be welcome.” He knew how difficult Bodie found personal conversations and, though he seemed prepared to explain, he also needed a bit of space to get his thoughts in order. Making tea was always a useful bit of make-work to delay the inevitable.

But the inevitable couldn’t be delayed forever and, minutes later, Bodie returned to the lounge bearing two large mugs, which he deposited on the coffee table before sitting at the other end of the couch. His body language positively screamed “Don’t touch me” so Doyle restrained his initial urge to comfort. Sometimes it was better to just let his partner work it out without prompting or pushing.

At last, Bodie sighed, turned his body sideways on to Doyle, reaching out his right hand, clasping the hand that rose to meet him. Squeezing the long fingers tightly, he started.

“That diplomat we followed all over London …”

“The Argentinian.”

“Yeah, him. It seems Cowley had information that Argentina was about to make a move on The Falkland Islands and, on sharing that information, MI6 asked him to check the guy out.”

“Which we did.”

“He was recalled to Buenos Aires because they’ve launched an invasion. The news will go public tomorrow.”

“Still doesn’t tell me where the Falklands are and why you’re involved.”

“I was getting to that.” He shifted uneasily in his seat, squeezing the captured fingers a little more. “I know you’ve always been curious about my family and why I don’t talk about them.” He paused again. “There isn’t some deep, dark family secret. But it’s been fun dropping hints, laying false clues, winding you, and the rest of the squad, up.”

“I always knew you were warped.” The joke, though weak, did raise a brief smile as Bodie continued.

“The Falklands are a group of islands in the South Atlantic, about 8,000 miles from here. Two main islands and lots of smaller ones. Settled by Brits and still part of the Commonwealth.”

“And what does all this have to do with you?” Doyle knew his partner was prevaricating but his question was asked gently. He didn’t want to push Bodie so much that he clammed up altogether.

“I was born there.” At last a piece of the personal jigsaw that was W A P Bodie.

“I thought you were from Liverpool.”

Bodie gave a quick grin. “Just a little bit of misdirection, my son. I went to school there.” Then he sobered as he continued. “My family has been on the Islands for about 120 years and the tradition has always been to send the children off the Islands for their secondary education so at age 11 I was shipped back here to grammar school.” He let go of Doyle’s hand and leant forward, clasping both his hands between his knees before speaking again. “You know the rest … how I ran away to sea at 14 and then into the mercs and, finally, here I am.”

Trying to make some kind of sense out of the information, Doyle queried, “So that still doesn’t explain your meeting with Cowley this morning and the whole bit about going to the Falklands.” He moved along the couch and put his arm across broad shoulders. “Tell me.”

“They’re sending a taskforce down to the islands and need local knowledge. I volunteered to go.”

“You volunteered? What did you go and do a daft thing like that for?”

“It’s my home, Ray. I haven’t been back there since I joined this mob but I still have family and friends there. I can’t stand back and watch their way of life being trounced by the Argies.” He shrugged off Doyle’s arm but turned towards his partner, making eye contact, emphasising his sincerity. “I can’t not go. You do understand that, don’t you?”

Doyle stared back, seeing how anxious Bodie was for him to understand why he’d made this decision. He didn’t like to see his partner pleading with him but there were things he still needed to know.

“When do you go? What do they want you to do? When will you be back?”

“Slow down, Ray. I can only tell you what they’ve told Cowley and he’s told me and that’s not much. The taskforce will be leaving as soon as possible. There aren’t enough Navy ships available for the number of troops so they’ve commandeered the Canberra and other civvy ships. I’m to be seconded back to 3Para officially. Unofficially I’ll be SAS, liaising between the locals and our forces. The government expect there to be local resistance and wants to make sure it’s utilised in the best way possible.”

“So you’ll be undercover?”

“Guess so. I know the people, I know the terrain. I’ve had the training. Should be a piece of cake.”

“Don’t get all cocky. Too much confidence leads to mistakes and I want you back in one piece.”

“I’ll do my very best to oblige.”

“I know you will. But who’ll be watching your back?”

“3Para and the SAS boys. Not as good as you, sunshine, but they’ll do in a pinch.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve got any idea of when you’ll be back.”

“A lot will depend on the defences the Argies will have set up by the time we get there. It’s a hell of a journey, could take weeks just to get into the vicinity. Then we’ll have to re-take the Islands. It’s not the easiest of terrain to cross even for experienced troops. And it’s winter.”

“Winter?”

“Southern hemisphere. Everything’s upside down. At this stage, your guess is as good as anyone’s as to how long we’ll be away.”

“So it could be months?”

“Quite likely. But our boys are the best. We’ll send the Argies packing as quickly as we can. And then it’s home to dear old Blighty.”

“And me.”

“Oh, very definitely you.” Bodie reached out and cupped his left hand to Doyle’s damaged cheek. He stroked the old injury very gently. “There’s no doubt about it. I’m coming back to you.”

“Then I’ll be waiting.”

“You do that. You just do that.” He leaned in and captured the full lips with a kiss so gentle it was almost non-existent. Pulling back slightly, raising one eyebrow. “Bed?”

“It’s still early.”

“Not for what I have in mind.”

“I like the way your mind works.” Getting up from the couch, Doyle pulled Bodie up into a bone-crunching hug.

“I don’t like this one bit but I do understand why you feel you have to go. Just make sure you come back to me.”

“Easiest promise I’ve ever made, Ray.” The look in Bodie’s eyes was more than enough to reassure Doyle. He knew Bodie loved him as he did Bodie but they rarely spoke of it aloud. But those blue eyes could be so very expressive.


	4. Chapter Four

Chapter Four April to June 1982

The next months were possibly the longest in Ray Doyle’s life. As far as he was aware, Bodie had departed UK shores on 9 April on board the cruise liner, Canberra, along with 3Para and three squadrons of Royal Marines. Once at sea, there was no possibility of communication with home until the ship arrived at the fleet rendezvous at Ascension Island. Even if Bodie thought to write, and he wasn’t a keen correspondent, any letter would still take weeks to arrive and, coming from a war zone, would be heavily censored.

So Doyle devoured every news article printed by the UK press, watched every news broadcast and worried. If anything drastic did happen to Bodie, it would be Cowley who would be informed as his nominated next of kin and not Ray. 

Realising that he wasn’t going to work well with another partner for any length of time, he asked Cowley if he could be assigned to solo operations and found himself doing a mixed bag of assignments, including a week or so acting as chauffeur and bodyguard to the boss.

***** 

Jimmy Doolan was a lush. To support his need for alcohol, he was also a petty thief with a sideline in information. And he’d known Ray Doyle since he was a copper on the East London streets. Although he rarely had information of any significance, he was still listed as an official snitch and the occasional snippet he came up with gained him additional drinking money.

Doyle had spent the morning in Records trying to match several bits of data to Cowley’s latest obsession but had come up with nothing. So a message to meet Doolan gave him an excuse to get out of HQ.

The meeting place selected by the snitch was typical. A back street public house that had seen better days but was kept open by the loyalty of the local residents, providing, as it did, an escape from the humdrum day to day existence of one of the most depressed areas of London. 

Doolan was huddled over a small table at the back of the snug. He was nursing a pint of bitter, staring at the table top most of the time but his eyes flickered nervously every time the door opened. When Doyle entered, Doolan acknowledged him with a brief nod before once more dropping his eyes to stare at the beer stains.

Stopping to buy two pints, Doyle made his way through the dark, smoky bar to join the snitch. Depositing both pints, dark brown liquid slopping over the sides, he slid onto the cracked leather bench

“How’s it going, Jimmy?”

“Same old, same old, Mr Doyle. You?”

“Much the same.”

“Mmm.” Doolan’s attention was once more caught by the pub door opening.

“Waiting for someone else?”

“No, no, Mr Doyle. It just pays to be careful. To know who’s around.” Doolan picked up a coaster, twisting it this way and that.

“So … what do you have for me today?” Leaning back on the bench, Doyle prepared for the usual mishmash of gossip and low grade criminal activity that Jimmy picked up as he trawled through the pubs of the East End.

Still twisting the coaster, which no longer bore any resemblance to an advertisement for Fullers Best, Doolan seemed reluctant to talk, which in itself was enough to raise the hackles on the back of Doyle’s neck. The problem was usually how to get Doolan to stop talking, not to get him to start. Finally, the older man took a deep breath.

“You know me, Mr Doyle. I hear things … around and about … and I know they’re usually not very important things. No …” He held up a hand to stop Doyle’s automatic denial of the pettiness of his usual trivia. “… I know where I sit on the food chain. But you’ve always been good to me, Mr Doyle, so you were the first person I thought of.” By now the coaster was shredded. “I was in the Blue Anchor down by Rotherhithe Dock. Minding my own business. I wasn’t looking for anything. I’d had a win on the ponies. Fifty nicker. Enough to see me through for quite a while. So, I was having a drink when these hard boys came in. The pub was busy which is probably why they thought they could talk freely. Hiding in plain sight and too much noise for them to be overheard. But they sat right next to me and, you know me, Mr Doyle, ears like a bat.”

Doyle was listening intently now. It was obvious that Doolan was scared so whatever he’d heard had to have some value.

“There was some kind of big deal going down. They didn’t talk about the details but I think it was drugs.”

“So you don’t know where or when?”

“Sorry, Mr Doyle … I can give you some names though. I recognised two of them. Eddie Parker and Teddy Malone. They’re bad lads. And it’s happening soon. Whatever the deal is, I didn’t want to hear any more. I slid out of there as soon as I could.”

“I’ll check it out, Jimmy. It may lead to something. Thank you.” Doyle stood up to leave but Jimmy stopped him with a gesture.

“There was one final thing. A word, a name maybe. It had them worried.”

“What was it?”

“Summerhayes. They said Summerhayes.”

***** 

The war for the Falkland Islands dragged on. The news coverage was comprehensive showing the realities of the conflict with the sinking of the General Belgrano, the Argentinian aircraft carrier and the loss of 323 young lives. This was closely followed by an Exocet missile hit on HMS Sheffield, the first landings by Royal Marines and Paras at San Carlos Bay, the loss of HMS Ardent and Antelope and the bombing of the Sir Lancelot and Sir Galahad. With news crews scattered throughout the task force, the images were vivid, bringing home the true horror. And Doyle had no way of knowing if Bodie was involved in any of it. If he was dead or alive.

Yet the public at large in the UK seemed largely unaffected by the conflict. Oh, there was an outpouring of patriotic fervour as the media reported the war but, in general, for individuals who were not directly involved with the military life went on as usual. And crime also went on as usual keeping CI5 busy.

Ray Doyle came off solo ops to work with Murphy and Jackson on a drugs case, following up the leads provided by Jimmy Doolan.

Taking a well-deserved break in the VIP Lounge, Doyle had just made a fresh mug of tea when his temporary partners entered, looking subdued.

“Any hot water left?” asked Murphy as he strode to the counter.

“It’s just boiled.”

“Great. My throat is as dry as an Arab’s jockstrap.”

“And don’t even ask how he knows that,” quipped Jackson as he flopped into an armchair, the very picture of dejection.

“No luck then?”

“Not a sausage. Wherever Parker and Malone have gone, they’ve managed to slide well out of sight. Thanks, Murph.” Jackson gratefully accepted the steaming mug offered to him.

Murphy swung a hard backed chair round from the table, straddled it and rested his arms across the back whilst cradling his mug.

“Anything from your end, Ray?”

“Nada. The street has gone awfully quiet on anything to do with those two. And no one seems to know anything about Summerhayes. The computers have come up with nothing either. Whoever or whatever Summerhayes is, it’s not on the PNC or related databases.”

“What about Doolan?”

“Gone to ground. I’m not surprised. He’s normally scared of his own shadow so to have had the guts to pass the information on; he won’t surface again for a good long while.”

“So dead ends all round. Who gets to tell Cowley?” queried a half-asleep Jackson. As two pairs of eyes turned to him, he was suddenly much more awake. “Oh no, you don’t. I had to tell him about the last débacle.” 

Two remarkably similar grins appeared then Doyle relented. “Okay, okay. I’ll tell him. Get your reports typed up and I’ll beard the old man.”

“You’re a good man, Ray Doyle, and I won’t hear a word said against you.” Murphy finished his tea and pushed up from the chair. “Come on, Jacko, if we can get the reports done, we might even get a few hours' sleep.”

As they left the room, a plaintive voice followed them. “What word said against me?”

***** 

Several weeks later, Ray Doyle was back in the VIP Lounge, catching up on the day’s newspapers. He’d already devoured every word on the Falklands conflict and had moved on to the everyday trivia that made up the majority of the so-called news. Flicking through the Evening Standard, a small article on Page 12 caught his eye.

He extracted the R/T from his inside jacket pocket and thumbed the ‘On’ button.

“4.5 to Control. Would you put me through to a DI Carver at Rotherhithe nick?”

“Just a minute, 4.5.”

The line buzzed and clicked then a familiar voice spoke.

“DI Carver.”

“Rob. It’s Ray Doyle.”

“Ray. How are you? It’s been a while.”

“That it has. And it’s not a social call now, I’m afraid.”

“Figured as much. What can I do for you?”

“Just seen the piece in the Standard. About Jimmy Doolan. Have you anything more than was reported?”

“And what’s CI5’s interest in an old soak like Doolan?”

“I’ve known him a long time, Rob. He’s been useful to me from time to time. The article didn’t say how he died. Just that his body had been found in a warehouse.”

“That’s the odd thing. It was a drugs overdose. Heroin according to the ME.”

“Jimmy wasn’t a user.”

“That’s what I meant by odd. He was an alcoholic. Never touched any other kind of drug.”

“So you don’t think it was accidental?”

“Not a chance. Someone did him in and wasn’t too particular how it was done. But his body had been hidden behind a pile of crates in the warehouse. Probably expected him to rot there. Sheer chance that an old tramp was looking for somewhere dry to doss down and practically fell over him.”

“No clues as to who?”

“Nary a one. Oh, it’ll stay on the books. But I wouldn’t hold your breath.”

“Well, let me know if you hear anything further. Jimmy didn’t deserve to die like that.”

“No one does. But I’ll let you know if anything comes up. Good to hear from you, Ray, even under these circumstances.”

“Yeah, thanks, Rob. See you around.”

The line clicked. Ray put the R/T away, staring at the newspaper. What on earth had Jimmy Doolan really stumbled on?


	5. Chapter Five

Chapter Five July to August 1982

Somehow the television screen seemed to dilute the grandeur of the scene as HMS Canberra slowly made her way up Southampton Water. For the crowds on the dockside, this was a moment they’d dreamed about for months and now it was a reality. Not for them the distance felt by the watcher curled into one corner of the couch. They were surrounded by family and friends, by the myriad others sharing this moment with them. They were bombarded by the happy noise of a huge crowd of people interspersed with the triumphal clamour of the military bands.

Ray Doyle was alone.

Watching the magnificent liner move slowly into position, the hawsers holding her in place, the gangplanks ready for her passengers to disembark, he found himself holding his breath in anticipation.

The commentator reached a pitch of excitement as the soldiers started to walk down the gangplanks. The crowds surged forward as the first of the troops reached the dockside. Doyle found himself leaning forward as if he could join them.

There was no way he would identify Bodie in the seething mass of humanity but he was hopeful that his mate would have returned home on the ship on which he’d embarked for the Falklands conflict. And he couldn’t bring himself to stop watching.

Knowing the Canberra was scheduled to bring home this contingent of the UK’s successful military expedition, he’d asked Cowley for a day’s leave. It hadn’t been granted. Instead he was officially on standby so he couldn’t leave London. Cowley knowing his man well enough to realise that he wouldn’t be able to concentrate on work until he knew his partner was safely home.

So Doyle had rushed through a few household chores, the television talking to itself in the background until he was ready. Then he’d settled himself with a coffee and tried not to worry.

But, as time passed, as the ship docked; as the troops disembarked and were greeted by their families; as the camera quickly swung past the stern gangplank where a procession of stretchers was being met by a fleet of ambulances, slowly he’d tried to find comfort, pulling his legs up onto the couch, wrapping his arms around them. 

He’d no idea how long it would take for Bodie to leave the ship, whether he was on one of the stretchers even now being loaded into ambulances or even if he was in one of the body bags that would only be taken off Canberra when the jubilant crowds had taken their heroes home. Even Cowley’s resources had failed to get any news of Bodie’s war and, unless the phone rang, Doyle had no means of knowing whether he was alive or dead.

As the TV channel programming changed, Doyle didn’t move. He was oblivious to the mindless pap being shown as he relived scenes from the past. His memories of Bodie were as vivid as the man himself. From their very first, somewhat antagonistic, meeting to their farewell as Bodie left for The Falklands, he had thousands of memories to recall, to cherish.

Coming back from those memories with a jerk, he realised that it had gone dark and that his face was wet.

The phone still hadn’t rung.

*****

With no word from Bodie, Doyle continued his daily routine: getting up, reading the daily newspapers over breakfast, showering, shaving, dressing and going early into the office. The day continued with whatever duties he was assigned and the work day finished whenever the task was completed or he could get away. 9 til 5 had never been the norm in CI5.

If he had any time in the evening, he tackled domestic chores, having moved back into his own flat the day Bodie left. If he got a weekend, or part of a weekend, free, he visited his family. Occasionally he joined Murphy or Jax for a drink but most of his social life atrophied as he had no inclination to pursue it.

Expecting to get some notice that Bodie was on his way home, even if only a phone call from Southampton, Doyle entered the rest room one afternoon to find the man himself surrounded by a large portion of the A Squad. It was neither the time nor the place for a loving reunion.

Pushing his way through a huddle of agents, he stopped in front of his partner. 

“Bodie.” His voice was a croak as if he hadn’t used it in a long while. Whilst he waited for a response, he checked Bodie over as much as he could. There were no obvious injuries and Doyle felt one worry fade away.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, the beautiful blue eyes were raised from their contemplation of the floor. Bodie’s face showed nothing. But his eyes. His eyes seemed to swallow the world. Doyle didn’t think he’d ever seen such desolation. Instinctively he started to reach out a hand in support, in love, and was startled as Bodie flinched back from him.

Before he could ask what was wrong, Cowley’s voice echoed down the corridor. “Briefing room. Now.”

In the mass exodus that followed, Doyle lost track of his partner and for 48 hours the action was non-stop as he worked with Murphy and Jackson. Bodie had disappeared with Lucas, McCabe and Anson. A few taut calls over the R/T were all he heard until they all returned to HQ having successfully broken an IRA cell without loss of life on either side, not even a shot fired. 

As the agents started to disperse for the night, Ray finally heard Bodie’s voice, sounding angry, coming from Cowley’s office. Exhaustion tugging at him, he decided not to wait at HQ. Their reunion should be private so he made his way to Bodie’s flat.

***** 

Whilst Bodie had been away, Doyle had made sure that all was well with the flat. Not knowing when Bodie would return, he had been unable to stock the ’fridge with fresh food but had ensured that there was enough tinned, packaged and frozen in stock so that there would be no need to run out to a supermarket immediately. He’d also dealt with the post, paying any bills as necessary, knowing he would be repaid. He’d run the vacuum and a duster over the furnishings every couple of weeks. But the flat had had that unlived in feeling and, though the weather had warmed up, it still felt cold.

He could feel the difference as soon as he let himself in. Whilst not, by any means, an untidy man, Bodie did make an impact on his living quarters and it was immediately apparent that he was back. There was opened post on the hall table, a pair of shoes lying where they’d been kicked off by the coatrack, a jacket on the back of an armchair in the lounge. 

Wandering through to the bedroom, Ray tried to absorb the fact that Bodie was really home. The large double bed was unmade, obviously Bodie had been back long enough to get some sleep before the call out. His kitbag had been emptied and dumped by the wardrobe. The bathroom now contained toiletry items obviously removed from the wash bag sitting on the shelf. Wet towels were draped on the side of the bath and the showerhead was drip, drip, dripping. Almost unconsciously, Ray tightened the shower tap and the dripping stopped.

Continuing through into the kitchen, he automatically filled the kettle and plugged it in. Mug, teabag, sugar were all to hand but as he went to open the ’fridge, he realised there would be no milk. He let go of the handle but the door continued to swing open, the weight on the shelves forcing it outwards. He almost could not believe his eyes. The pristinely empty ’fridge he’d been expecting was now almost full to overflowing. There were several pints of milk in the door along with cheese, eggs and butter whilst the interior revealed a comprehensive selection of Bodie’s favourite foods, not all of it junk.

Turning away after shutting the door firmly, Ray examined the room in greater detail. There was fresh bread and biscuits in the containers on the counter, fresh vegetables in the rack, washed dishes stacked neatly on the drainer and several dirty plates and mugs soaking in the bowl. His eye was caught by a blinking red light, telling him that the washing machine cycle was finished.

Forgetting his intention to make tea, he walked back into the lounge. Just how long had Bodie been home? He certainly hadn’t just dropped off his bags before rushing into HQ. Somewhat at a loss as this whole scenario was certainly not one he’d fantasised about for months; he stood in the centre of the lounge.

A key turned in the front door lock.

***** 

Bodie knew Doyle was waiting for him. Who else would be waiting for him at 2am? Who else would turn on every light in the place so that the flat glowed like an overgrown Christmas decoration? 

His return to the UK had been followed by an intensive debrief before he’d been allowed to go home. He’d then taken the opportunity to restock the kitchen and settle his stuff back in before reporting his return to Cowley.

He’d tried to put off this particular confrontation for as long as possible but he’d known that it couldn’t be put off forever. Once Doyle knew he was back, he wouldn’t rest until he found out what was going on. It was what made him such a good detective. It was what made him such a pain in the arse as a friend, as a lover.

Taking his time, still trying to put off the inevitable, he hung his coat on the rack. He removed his shoulder holster, wrapping it neatly round his Browning, and tucked it safely away in the drawer of the hall table. Doyle might annoy him, might even make him want to throttle him at times, but he didn’t want to shoot him so temptation should be left well out of reach. Deciding that he’d put it off long enough, he walked through into the lounge.

Doyle was standing in the centre of the room. He looked really tired but that was hardly surprising as he couldn’t have had more than a few hours sleep in the last few days. The IRA cell had had them all hopping. He also looked as if he’d lost weight. Bodie recognised the jeans he was wearing and they’d certainly never hung off his hips as they did now. Bodie could remember them moulding to Doyle’s legs and hips like a second skin. He’d been fretting, not eating properly, and Bodie knew that his absence was the cause. But he couldn’t let guilt at what he’d done to his partner put him off course now. He’d come this far. He had to see it through to the end.

They stared at each other for what seemed like hours until suddenly Doyle relaxed.

“Bodie. It’s great to see you. When did you get back?”

He started to move across the room, his hands reaching out to touch, to caress. But he stopped as, once again, Bodie flinched back from him.

“What is it? What’s the matter, love?”

“I can’t do this any more.” He suddenly found it impossible to look at Doyle and fixed his eyes on the self-portrait his lover had given him for Christmas. Doyle insisted that his artwork was mere daub work as he didn’t have the time or the talent to devote to it. But he’d worked long and hard on the portrait and Bodie had been delighted with it. It now hung in pride of place on the wall where the fireplace would have been had it not been ripped out when the flats were renovated. 

It had become a focal point for Bodie, a lodestone, pointing out how important his relationship with Doyle was and he’d always made a point of checking it was still there whenever he entered the room. Now it was taunting him. Telling him to get it over with. Better the short, sharp shock than a long drawn out tearing apart. He turned his gaze back to Doyle, knowing that the portrait was also watching him.

“This, Ray, this. As in the two of us. I’ve had a lot of time to think over the past few months and it’s not working.”

“What are you talking about, Bodie? We were fine when you left. You promised you’d come back to me.” There was such bewilderment and hurt in Doyle’s voice as if he couldn’t begin to process what Bodie was telling him. He knew they’d been happy. Everything had been going so well for them. There was no way this was real. Bodie couldn’t possibly be serious. “This is some kind of sick joke.”

“No … it’s no joke. I just can’t do this any more.”

“But I love you. I thought … I believed you loved me.”

“I believed it myself.” Bodie felt the need to be honest. “But I’ve come to realise that I don’t … love you, that is. Oh, I care for you a great deal. You’re my partner and my best friend.”

“And your lover. I’m your lover.”

“Was my lover. I’m trying to tell you it’s over, Ray.”

“And I don’t believe you, Bodie. What we have is too good. Let me show you.” 

Before Bodie could react, he was wrapped in strong arms and a warm, generous mouth latched onto his. And though his brain was telling him that this was all wrong, his body reacted to the well-known taste, scent and feel of Ray Doyle. A Ray Doyle on heat could raise the dead and Bodie was definitely not dead despite having just spent months in a war zone.

With a groan, he returned the kiss, their tongues tangling, as they tried to get inside each other’s skin.

***** 

Waking was slow, consciousness returning gradually, as Doyle became aware that he was lying on his stomach, one arm and a leg casually draped across the body next to him. Light was pouring in through the bedroom window as the curtains had never been closed. They’d had other things on their minds by the time they’d made it as far as the bed.

Turning onto his back, taking care not to wake his partner, he stretched luxuriously, taking the time to push each muscle in his legs, getting rid of the kinks. The bedside clock said it was 2.28pm. Not a problem. All the teams involved in the IRA cell takedown had been told to take a 24-hour break so, unless the world was threatened with extinction, they had plenty of time to reacquaint themselves. And Doyle had every intention of thoroughly exploring and enjoying the body next to him.

Their lovemaking had been passionate; he could feel bruising on his upper arms where Bodie had clung onto him as if he would drown in the storm of feeling that had overtaken them both.

Taking a deep breath, he savoured the scents around him: sex, sweat and the uniqueness that was Bodie. There was no way that Bodie could deny their relationship after the hours they’d spent making love; devouring each other, marking each other, soothing each other. And they would talk. He needed to know what had happened during Bodie’s time away from him and what had provoked the statements denying their continuing relationship.

The hairs on the back of his neck prickled as he became aware that he was being watched. Turning onto his left side, he found Bodie facing him; the blue eyes oddly blank as if he didn’t recognise who was sharing the bed with him. Doyle smiled, smugly satisfied, and reached out to gently stroke Bodie’s cheek. There was no answering smile. 

Still not concerned as he knew how good they were together, Doyle moved closer. Bodie moved suddenly, pushing up and out of the bed to sit on the edge of the mattress, head held in his hands.

“Bodie?”

“That shouldn’t have happened.”

“What shouldn’t?” Doyle was finding it difficult to reconcile this reluctant man with the passionate partner of only hours before.

“Having sex. It was a mistake.”

“We didn’t have sex. We made love. There’s a world of difference.” Doyle rolled so that he could sit beside Bodie. Although he wanted nothing more than to put his arms around him, he realised that Bodie wanted to keep a distance between them so, for the moment, he honoured that. “Talk to me, Bodie. Tell me why you’re doing this. You owe me that much.”

“Owe you? Owe you?” Bodie jumped up from the bed, paced across the room before turning to face Doyle. “I don’t owe you anything.”

Thoroughly annoyed now at Bodie’s obstinacy and still not understanding where this rejection was coming from, Doyle was on his feet and in his face. “An explanation, Bodie. You owe me an explanation. How can you love me when you went away but not love me now? That’s not how I thought love worked.”

“Well, that’s what happened. I … don’t love you any more. I don’t want to be with you.”

“And I bloody well don’t believe you.”

Face to face, they glared at each other.

A shrug and Bodie broke the confrontation. “It doesn’t matter what you believe, Ray. I’m telling you the truth. This relationship isn’t working for me and that’s all there is to it. I want to call a halt.”

“But it just doesn’t make any sense.”

“It may not make sense to you but it does to me.”

Bodie’s face was set in stubborn mode; a look Doyle knew all too well. Nothing he said or did, at this point, would change Bodie’s mind. And Ray Doyle had his pride. He’d given it his best shot. Tempted Bodie into bed with him, believing that if he shared himself, then Bodie would realise how much they meant to each other. But whatever had caused this about face from Bodie was obviously not going to be changed quickly.

Doyle needed time to re-group his forces so he gathered his dignity to him – not the easiest of tasks since he was still stark naked. He turned away from Bodie and picked up his clothes, which were scattered between the bedroom and the lounge. 

As he quickly dressed, he waited for Bodie to tell him it was alright, it was a mistake, a bad joke, anything but the end of it all.

Sitting on the couch, he pulled on his trainers and looked up at the portrait he’d given Bodie for Christmas. He’d put a lot of love into the work and he still felt it was one of his best efforts. Saluting it, ironically, he whispered, “Look after him. At least he’s still got one of us.” The painted green eyes watched him as he walked out of the lounge.

He paused by the front door, hoping that Bodie had changed his mind. The silence from the bedroom mocked his hopes. Pride stiffened his spine. Much as he loved Bodie, he would not beg. But he hadn’t given up. The battle may have been won by his stubborn partner but the war was still wide open as far as Doyle was concerned.

Sighing, he opened the front door and left quietly.

***** 

Bodie heard the door close. He was standing by the window. A few minutes later, he watched Doyle exit the building and cross the road to his car. He didn’t look back but got in the car and drove away.

Bodie look at the bedside clock: 2.54pm.

***** 

The world ended at 2.54pm on a cold, wet Wednesday in August 1982. Not for everyone, but for William Bodie and Raymond Doyle the world they had so painstakingly forged through years of partnership and, latterly, love, shattered in an instant. Or so it seemed when they looked back on the events of that August day.


	6. Chapter Six

Chapter Six August 1982 to April 1984

“I believe I made myself quite clear, Doyle. I partnered you with 3.7 and, until I say otherwise, you will remain partners.”

“But …”

“But nothing. As I told Bodie only yesterday, I will be the final arbiter of what does and does not happen in CI5. You will continue to work with 3.7. I will not have one of my best teams nosedive because of a little personal friction. Sort it out, Doyle. I don’t want to see either one of you in this office for anything other than work. Now I believe I gave you an assignment. Get on with it.”

Propelled by the force of Cowley’s wrath, Doyle found himself out in the corridor.  
He’d come into the office early to request reassignment but, much as he had expected, that had been a dismal failure. 

He’d returned to his flat on a miserable afternoon that perfectly matched his mood. He waited for the ‘phone to ring. It didn’t. He tried to fill in the time before he had to go back to work but couldn’t settle to anything. He’d thought the months whilst Bodie was away were the most miserable of his life. Now he knew better. While Bodie was playing soldier, he’d known that he was in love and loved. Now the centre of his life was off kilter and he didn’t know what to do next.

He knew he loved Bodie. He knew he wanted to keep him in his life somehow. But he didn’t know how to achieve that. So he’d confronted Cowley, given him a lame excuse about personal difficulties, and gotten the expected reaction. He and Bodie had to continue to work together, which gave him time to convince his partner that they were meant to be together personally as well as professionally.

*****

Walking into the rest room to find his partner was one of the most difficult things Bodie had ever done. He knew he’d done the right thing as far as his personal relationship with Doyle went. But he also knew that Doyle would not let the matter lie. He was a stubborn bugger, gnawing at a problem until he had a solution. So, Bodie would have to out-stubborn him to make sure that the message came across loud and clear.

Cowley’s diktat that they continue to work together as a team would not make it easy. Seeing Doyle day in, day out; talking to him, even if only about work; sharing space with him, particularly on observations; backing him up; protecting him; all would be more difficult going forward but Bodie was convinced that his decision was the right one. As long as he kept to that decision, all would be well. He repeated it to himself as he walked into the rest room and spotted Doyle lounging on the far side, talking to Jax.

Taking a moment before he was noticed, he tried to assess Doyle’s mood. His partner was casually dressed, as usual, and his hair looked as if he’d been raking his fingers through it. The curls were sticking out at all angles and Bodie felt his fingers twitch to smooth it down.

As he approached, he could see the dark shadows under the green eyes, marring the unusual features that made the face so endlessly fascinating to him. Obviously Doyle hadn’t slept much either.

Feeling himself under observation, Doyle looked up. His face, which had been quite animated whilst talking to Jax, blanked.

“Bodie.” The acknowledgement was devoid of intonation, which in itself was a fair indication of how Doyle was feeling.

“Doyle.” Bodie’s voice was just as bland. “Jax.” 

“Mornin’, Bodie.” Jax was his usual good-natured self. His eyes took in the formal attire Bodie had opted to wear to help him maintain his defences. “Going somewhere special?”

“Nope. Just keeping up standards. Someone has to.” It was a typical Bodie response to teasing remarks about his tendency to wear suits and ties. But Jax noticed Doyle stiffen beside him. Deciding that discretion was the better part of valour if these two had fallen out, he made his excuses and left.

Silence.

Two agents started to enter the rest room but, on seeing the standoff, turned and went back the way they’d come.

Bodie was the first to break eye contact. Nodding briefly in acknowledgement of his own foolishness in hoping all would be well, he turned towards the kitchenette in the corner of the room.

“Tea?”

There was a pause before the monotone answered him. “Yeah. Ta.”

It seemed that they could at least be civil to each other. The next step was to see if they could still work together.

***** 

The CI5 grapevine was particularly active over the next few months. No one knew what had happened between Bodie and Doyle but everyone had a favourite theory. There had even been talk of running a book with a cash prize for the lucky winner who hit on the right reason. This had, however, died away quite quickly when Murphy, Jax and, surprisingly, Stewart, who was in the building for one of his irregular updates with Cowley, each made it clear to the ringleaders that the partners were to be left to sort things out in their own way.

Neither Bodie nor Doyle was aware of the amount of silent support willing them to get back on track. They both concentrated their efforts on managing the working together. There were no more visits to a pub to share a quick pint after work. There were no more chats, bantering or otherwise, whilst they were on observation duty. There were no more shared meals over which they put the world to rights. Their lives now moved on parallel tracks, only intersecting as necessary for whichever assignment they were working on.

Doyle lost even more weight. If he was unhappy, he simply stopped eating. Food became unimportant. He’d spend the night hours trying to work out how best to approach Bodie but during the daytime he would take one look at the bland expression Bodie now habitually adopted and decide that it probably wasn’t a good time to broach their personal problems. 

Whilst Doyle lost weight, Bodie seemed to have retreated to the hard-faced mercenary he’d once been. Gone were the jokes and the jaunty exterior. He avoided the rest room in case Doyle was in there. He didn’t want to see Doyle pointedly ignoring him. It hurt too much. And he knew it was his own fault. He would just have to find a way to deal with it.

Both of them considered resigning. Both of them decided that there was no way the bastard was going to drive them out of a job they loved. So months passed.

***** 

“Hello, Marge. How are you?” Doyle stopped in the office doorway as Bodie answered the ‘phone. Knowing who it was from the expression on Bodie’s face, he moved back to his desk as his partner passed the telephone handset to him. Marjorie Harper had proven herself time and again as a source of information following their initial meeting after the death of Sammy Bladon. But she still insisted on only speaking to Doyle.

“Marge! Lovely to hear from you. Have you got something for us? Great. We’ll pop in this afternoon. About 3? See you then.”

Replacing the receiver, he glanced across at Bodie. And grinned. He knew how much Bodie enjoyed a meeting with Marge.

“I can go by myself if you’d rather not see her.”

“And have Cowley asking why I let you go to a meet with the fragrant Marge all by yourself. She’s not to be trusted around you.” Bodie’s response was so like what Doyle continued to think of as pre-Falklands that he responded in kind.

“You know she’d take to you much better if you didn’t glower every time she puts her hand on my knee.” Realising that he’d referred to Bodie’s behaviour when they were still a couple; he fully expected to be closed out, yet again. Instead, Bodie seemed to be quite relaxed and only said, “Then I’d better put me best face on. D’you think she might have something or does she just want to see you? It’s been a while.”

Also relaxing, Doyle responded. “Must be at least six months. Saw her whilst you were …” He almost choked on the next words. “… away.” So far they’d survived by avoiding anything to do with Bodie’s stint in the Falklands and any topic that veered towards the personal. As long as they only talked about work and didn’t see each other socially, they seemed to be back on an even keel, joining in the chat and teasing, chatting up the girls in the typing pool, going out for a drink with the rest of the squad. Only they knew how much was missing, although a few of the more observant souls had noted that the chat had a hard edge to it, that they never carried through with any of the typists and they never stayed for more than a pint or two with the lads, always arriving and leaving separately.

***** 

The antique shop stood on a corner in an up and coming area of West London. Whilst primarily a front for Marge Harper’s more nefarious activities, it was a profitable business in its own right. One window display featured a Victorian room set, comprising fire surround, armchair, side table, rugs and the ornamental clutter so loved during the latter part of that monarch’s reign. The other window held several glass display cases with a selection of porcelain, silver and jewellery. The interior of the shop was its usual cluttered, but elegantly displayed, mixture of items and periods.

Having managed to find a parking space only one hundred yards down the road, the partners entered to the tinkling doorbell and were greeted by the exquisitely coiffured salesman who ran this side of the business for Marge.

“Gentlemen. Good afternoon. How may I assist you?”

Bodie gestured towards the back of the shop.

“Here to see Marge. We’ll show ourselves through.” And he pushed past the surprised salesman, heading for the door at the back of the shop.

Doyle gave the man an apologetic grin and followed. Whilst it might seem that Bodie was eager to see Marge, it was more likely that he wanted to get the meeting over with as soon as possible.

At the foot of the staircase leading to the lady’s lair, one of her two companions waited. Recognising Bodie, he stepped quickly out of the way.

Marjorie Harper was expecting them. Not only had she invited them, but her early warning system would have told her as soon as the gold Capri pulled into the road. In fact, Bodie wouldn’t be surprised if she knew the instant they left HQ. Her information system was that good.

Although Bodie entered the lounge first, he knew her attention was focussed behind him. Giving her a brief nod in greeting, he moved further into the room, then turned to watch Marge greet his partner.

Ever since their first encounter with the high-class fence, Doyle had been the favoured one. Marge had taken to him straight away and, for a time, it looked as if she was measuring him up as husband number four, or was it five? Bodie couldn’t remember and frankly didn’t care. He’d tolerated Marge because her information was always good and Doyle liked her. Now he watched the interplay.

Doyle greeted Marge warmly with a kiss to the cheek but he took a seat in an armchair, thus avoiding sitting next to her. She took this manoeuvre in her stride, turning to the drinks cabinet.

“Drink, Ray? And you, Bodie?” The second question was just above grudging.

“Whatever you’re having, Marge, will be fine.” Doyle spoke for both of them.

There was a jug already prepared and Marge quickly added the liquid to three tall glasses, deftly decorating them with fruit and a green leaf. As she passed one to Bodie, he inhaled. Mint.

Handing a glass to Doyle, Marjorie Harper settled on the large, comfortable sofa and sipped delicately. She was a good-looking woman, who could have been anywhere between forty and fifty, dressed casually but elegantly in trousers and what appeared to be a silk blouse. Having read her file, Bodie knew she was actually fifty-five but that in no way detracted from her appeal and she knew it. But none of her attention was directed at Bodie. It was all, as usual, aimed at Doyle, who was sipping appreciatively from the tall, cold glass of Pimms.

Watching his partner from the other side of the room, Bodie was struck once more by just how attractive he was. Dressed casually in jeans and a t-shirt, the leather bomber jacket now draped over the arm of the chair, he was, nevertheless, the embodiment of everything Bodie had ever desired. 

As Doyle laughed at a comment from Marge, his head thrown back, revealing an expanse of lightly tanned skin, Bodie could still recall the salt taste of the man’s sweat when he’d licked, bitten and kissed that erogenously sensitive area. The memories were, for some reason, very close to the surface and he took a large gulp of alcohol and started to cough. He saw Doyle instinctively start to get up, probably to thump his back as he had so often in the past, but Bodie shook his head slightly and Doyle subsided. 

He noticed Marge taking note of the by-play and wondered what she was making of it all. In the time that they had been together as a couple, Marge had quickly sussed them out, showing absolutely no abhorrence for their sexual preference. She seemed happy that Doyle had settled, if not for her, then for someone he loved even though she had never made any secret of the fact that she still thought Bodie was a ‘lout’.

Getting his breath back under control took a minute or so but then he settled again to watch and listen. His role in these conversations had always been the bystander. Marge accepted his presence but never included him.

“Now then, I think I might have come across something that will help. As you know, I hear things and I have a lot of contacts in the art world so when you rang me, I put the word out.” Her attention once more focussed on Doyle, Marge continued. “I thought I knew all the forgers in London. There have never been that many good ones. Too many amateurs in this game. But from what you said, it seems there’s a new player.”

Cowley had them working on a fraud case. Art fraud. One of the curators at the National Portrait Gallery had been suspicious of several recent acquisitions, even though the provenance appeared watertight. Working diligently, he’d discovered that at least one of the works was a very good fake. He’d then reported his findings to his boss, who, in turn, had taken it to the Metropolitan Police’s Arts and Antiques Unit. The complexity of the trail the Met uncovered crossed into territory within the remit of CI5 and now the partners were trying to make sense of a spider’s web of contacts moving from the art world through the standard criminal fraternity into the murkiness of terrorism and arms dealing.

To Doyle, it had seemed perfectly logical to ask Marge to utilise her resources. She had proven time and again that she could not only produce titbits of information that were valuable additions to a bigger picture but she was also incredibly discreet. She trod a fine line between the criminal fraternity and the forces of law and order, but she only worked with CI5 and Doyle. She would have nothing to do with the Met since she lost a close associate with the death of Sammy Blaydon, blaming DS Garbett for not seeing through Pulman, the fancy solicitor.

“What did you find, Marge?” Doyle prompted.

“You have to realise that there’s nothing definite. I’ve picked up bits and pieces but nothing that you would call evidence.”

“Anything is better than nothing. Which is all we have at the moment. A whole mess of nothing.”

“Well, I couldn’t get anyone to talk about whoever is behind this racket. Whoever it is has it sewn up tight. Some of the slackest tongues in the Smoke are shut up tighter than a Scotsman’s purse.”

Bodie grinned. “Sounds like a certain Scot we know.” And he was pleased when he got an answering grin from Doyle. There had been too few relaxed exchanges over the last six months. Not that he was surprised at that. After all, he had been the one to insist that their relationship could not continue. But he’d never realised how much the friendship alone had meant to him. Perhaps they could get that much back. Their professional relationship had survived and they were working together as well as ever. For the first time in months, Bodie allowed himself to believe that he could still have Ray Doyle as a friend. Tuning back in, he realised that Marge had still not got to the point.

“Are you sure you don’t want another drink, Ray?”

“I’m fine, Marge. One is enough. After all, we are on duty.”

Knowing that had never stopped them in the past since, technically, they were on duty twenty-four hours a day; Bodie glanced down at his nearly empty glass to hide his smirk. He didn’t remember even tasting the Pimms but then Doyle had always had that effect on him. Making him forget himself as the lust and, later, the love had overwhelmed him. About to make a comment to get Ray to smile for him again, he remembered. He’d made a decision, enforcing it on both of them. It was still the right thing to have done. He sighed and carefully placed his glass on the coffee table.

“I really don’t know if this is in any way connected with your case. But the name came up several times and always with the kind of sideways glance as if it shouldn’t be mentioned or they were being watched. And it does tie in with the art world. There’s a gallery there. Open to the public occasionally. But it’s a private collection.”

“So what’s this name?” Bodie was getting impatient with Marge’s seemingly pointless ramble. He knew she liked to string out the passing on of information but he needed to get out. To get his head straight. To stop thinking with his balls.

“I was just getting to that.” Marge turned back to Ray, pointedly cold shouldering Bodie.

“Go on then, Marge,” encouraged Doyle.

“Right. It’s a house. In Dorset. Called Summerhayes.”


	7. Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven May to September 1984

The drive down to Dorset seemed interminable. After leaving the motorway, they’d followed a series of A and B roads, twisting and turning across the county. The countryside was a green patchwork of pasture and woodlands, grazing sheep and cows alternating with deciduous trees and the occasional cash crop. On the outskirts of Weymouth, they drove through the vast wrought iron gates that gave entrance to the Summerhayes estate.

Doyle manoeuvred the Capri through the gates and down the long, winding driveway. As he changed gear, he was conscious of the flex of his thigh muscle under the tight denim. He knew Bodie had been watching him on and off. Ever since the meeting with Marjorie Harper, there had been a real sense of connection, something that had been missing since Bodie had told him they were through. 

He couldn’t help the surge of hope at what he felt was the very real possibility that Bodie was, at long last, coming to his senses. But he wasn’t going to push it. No matter how much he loved the man, he was no masochist. He had no intention of putting himself back into emotional hell. It had taken time to get himself back onto an even keel. Oh, he wasn’t happy but he was managing to function. He also knew that a working trip wasn’t the time to raise personal issues. But he could continue to bask in the attention, feeling his skin warm where Bodie’s eyes rested.

“Would you look at that?” They were the first words Bodie had spoken in the last hour. And they were inspired by the vista that had opened up before them as the driveway topped a small rise. Doyle slowed the Capri down to a crawl as they both took in the view.

The land dropped away as the valley widened out as it shelved gently and a sliver of silver grey edged the green. The sea. To the left was the house. Basically a Tudor manor, added to over the centuries in various architectural styles, it sprawled across the landscape, surrounded by manicured gardens, dominating the upper end of the valley.

“That must be the gallery.” Bodie pointed to the glass fronted building situated to one side of the main house. It was huge, out of place in the peace and tranquillity of the Dorset countryside.

“Didn’t Marge say the owner was an art lover?” queried Doyle. “What on earth possessed him to build that monstrosity?”

“Making his mark. She also said he had pots of money so I guess he can build anything he wants.”

“Mmmm. I wonder what the locals make of it.” Doyle put the car back into gear and eased it on down the hill.

“Don’t see too many of them around here. It’s very isolated. And you know as well as I do that money greases all wheels, including local planning authorities.”

“Very true.”

The driveway divided just as it reached the bottom of the hill; one branch leading to the main house and the other heading for the gallery. Doyle turned the car towards the glass castle.

Minutes later, they pulled themselves out of the vehicle, stretching cramped muscles, taking in the layout. It was incredibly peaceful. The sun was shining, the sky blue crystal, birds chirped cheerfully and they appeared to be the only human beings around.

“Come on then. The entrance appears to be over that way.” Gesturing expansively, Doyle set off down a gravel path that disappeared round the corner. 

Bodie followed him to the gallery entrance.

Double wooden doors, set between marble pillars, opened to reveal an interior from the 1930s. Parquet flooring gleamed as the afternoon sun caught dust motes dancing. An enormous desk dominated the hallway.

“Security’s lax. It’s a bit off the beaten track for your casual visitor but you’d have thought they’d have beefed it up after the robbery. Still … let’s see if there’s anyone home.” And Bodie pressed the bell on the desk. Somewhere in the far distance there were chimes. “Seems we might have a wait.” He looked round the room: a painting adorned one wall; two sculptures glared at each other from opposing pedestals, several elaborate displays of flowers were starkly beautiful.

Doyle moved around the room, pausing in front of one of the sculptures. He tilted his head to one side as he contemplated it as if the change of perspective would help him to work out what it was supposed to be.

“Succubus.” The well-modulated light tenor voice answered the unvoiced question.

“What?” Doyle whirled round prepared to meet any threat but paused as he saw who had spoken.

The man was superbly good looking. Six feet tall, blond, clad in a charcoal grey suit with a pristine white shirt and an, undoubtedly, old school tie, he strode into the room. He exuded confidence, totally at home in this environment.

“The sculpture. It’s called ‘Succubus’. The artist was making a statement about the demands made on man by woman.”

Doyle turned to stare at the piece again as the man joined him by the pedestal.

“You don’t see it, do you?”

“I’m afraid I don’t. Sculpture’s never really interested me.”

“Well, each to his own, I always say.” The man turned to include Bodie. The turn brought his arm into contact with Doyle’s but he made no effort to move away as he continued. “I’m Gregory Hillyer, archivist of the Summerhayes Collection. We’re not open to the public at the moment. But I can direct you to galleries that are.”

Bodie spoke up. “I’m Bodie, he’s Doyle. We’re with CI5.” They both flashed their IDs. “In the course of an investigation, the name Summerhayes came up.”

“Really! I can’t begin to imagine in what connection.”

“Possibly no connection at all,” said Doyle. “But I understand there was a robbery here several months ago.”

“Indeed, yes. In January. The local police have been most diligent in their investigations. Several pieces have been recovered though not yet returned. I believe they are being held until there is a case to come to trial. Most disappointing for Mr Summerhayes, of course. This is very much a personal collection. Every piece chosen by Mr Summerhayes. So what is the interest of CI5?”

“The name of the gallery was mentioned and, as the case we are investigating involves art fraud, our boss thought it would be wise to take a look at the crime scene.” Bodie had no intention of revealing that Cowley had been most reluctant to let them come down to Dorset. He felt there was insufficient evidence for even this most tentative of investigations.

“I can’t say it makes any sense to me but I can certainly show you around the gallery. If you would like to come this way.” A gracious grey-clad arm indicated the door through which he had entered the hallway.

Following, Bodie exchanged a glance with Doyle, raising an eyebrow in appreciation of their guide.

They walked from one room to another: each one filled with the same eclectic mix as displayed in the entrance hall. Their guide pointed out occasional pieces that obviously meant something to him. Eventually they entered an office and Hillyer invited them to sit.

He opened a filing cabinet and pulled out a box file. “These might possibly be of interest to you.” He handed across a pile of photographs. “On the insistence of the insurance company, every piece in the collection was professionally photographed. These are the pieces that were taken.”

Sorting through them, Doyle paused. “I recognise this one.” He put it down on the desk.

“Ah yes. Lovely piece. By Shona Pierce. A tragic loss. She had so much talent.”

“I don’t recognise the name but I do recognise the painting. Didn’t you say it was Bridport?” This last to Bodie, who picked up the photograph to study it more closely.

“Yeah, that’s Bridport. I don’t recall seeing the painting before though.”

“It was last year. At the McAllister house. On the wall of the lounge.”

“Oh, yeah, I remember it now.” Handing the photograph back to Hillyer, he asked, “Tragic, you said?”

“Yes, indeed. Shona Pierce was Shona McAllister, which is why the painting was in their house. She loved it and refused to sell it but it came on the market last October when her estate was settled and Mr Summerhayes snapped it up. He was devastated when it was amongst the stolen pieces. And it has yet to be recovered.”

“May I keep this?” Doyle asked, retrieving the photograph from the box file, in which Hillyer had replaced it.

“Of course. Though it was definitely the real thing. Not a fake. So it would have nothing to do with your case.”

“The McAllister murder is still live. Any piece of the puzzle could be of use,” Doyle explained.

Directing the conversation back to their current case, Bodie asked, “And you’re quite sure of the provenance of all the other pieces in the collection, including the stolen items?”

“Oh yes. Mr Summerhayes is quite particular about what he includes. As I said earlier, it is a very personal collection.”

***** 

Their return to HQ was anything but triumphant. Cowley had been doubtful as to the efficacy of their trip and it seemed that his doubts had been justified. They were no nearer connecting the dots on the fraud case than they’d been when they first went to see Marge.

But, as was usual in CI5, there were far more cases than there were agents to handle them. Cowley had no intention of building a huge organisation. He wanted, and had, quality. However, it meant that he had to pick and choose which cases to pursue. Not that any case was ever forgotten. So the McAllister murder and the art fraud/terrorism cases were pushed to one side and Cowley’s best team were given other assignments.

***** 

Bodie knew that Doyle was aware that he’d been watching him. He kept expecting an approach, an attempt to rekindle their personal relationship. He’d tried to stop but somehow his eyes were drawn to his partner and would dwell there until he forcibly reminded himself that it was all over. By his choice.

But nothing happened. Maybe he was imagining it after all. Maybe Ray had accepted the situation and the working relationship that they had kept going. They’d even managed a kind of friendship in the months since the Dorset trip. Not what they’d had in years past. They still didn’t spend much time together outside work but when they did meet up, usually with other agents, the atmosphere between them was comfortable. Or at least that’s what Bodie believed. He no longer knew what Doyle was thinking except on the job.

*****

“Her work was simply amazing, Ray. She had so much talent. So much more to give.” Antony Liddle almost spilled his drink as he waved his hands enthusiastically as if to convince his companion of the truth of what he was saying.

“I don’t doubt you’re right, Tony. But I’ve only seen the one piece.” Ray moved his pint to one side as Tony continued to gesticulate.

“I remember. You told me about it. The harbour scene.”

“That’s the one. In fact, I think I have a photo of it here.” Ray reached down to the document folder resting against a table leg and opened it as he placed it on the top. 

It was early evening so the small wine bar was still quiet. But it suited Ray and Tony to meet here for one of their infrequent get-togethers. They’d met at art college and, though their careers had diverged since, they had kept in touch, enjoying occasional meetings and the chance, for Ray, to talk about art. Tony now owned a small gallery in Mayfair so for him it was talking shop but he liked to share his knowledge and Ray was an enthusiastic amateur. It was also a chance for Ray to escape from the often dirty reality of CI5 and indulge in the art world he’d turned his back on when he’d joined the Met. 

On this occasion, Tony had been talking about a retrospective of Shona Pierce’s work that was currently in the planning stages. He watched eagerly as Ray removed the photograph from the folder and handed it to him. He studied it earnestly for several minutes, twisting it this way and that to get the best light. He frowned.

“What is it, Tony? What’s wrong?”

“I’m not sure. It’s been a while since I saw the work. Shona invited me to one of their soirées and it was on the lounge wall. I admired it and she told me how she’d come to paint this particular view. She was such a charming woman. Gave me all kinds of details about how long it had taken her, about the people she met on the quay side, how she’d constructed the painting.”

“Constructed?”

“That’s how she described the process of layering the paint to get the effects she wanted.”

“Right. But you think there’s something wrong with it?”

“Yeah. There’s something not quite right about it. Obviously a ten by eight colour photograph is a poor substitute for the real thing. But it feels … I don’t know … unbalanced somehow. As if there was something missing. Such a shame it was stolen. I don’t suppose there’s any news about its recovery?”

“Nothing as far as I am aware.”


	8. Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight October 1984 to May 1985

Excitement coursed through his veins. He hadn’t felt this way in far too long. He needed to be there now. Not stuck in a traffic jam. He banged the steering wheel in frustration but there was no way the queue of cars, buses and lorries was going to move any faster.

Gradually the car crept forward: first gear, second gear, back to first. Brake. He knew he was going to be late. Bodie had asked him to come round after work and, though he hadn’t specified a time, Doyle still felt that he was going to be late.

The traffic congestion eased eventually and he was able to put his foot down, though keeping within the set speed limits. It wouldn’t do for one of Cowley’s finest to be cited for speeding on private business.

Parking the car neatly outside the block housing Bodie’s flat, he paused. Looking up, he could see a dark shadow outlined in the window. Bodie was watching for him. It seemed to indicate an impatience in his normally cool-headed partner that could only bode well for this meeting. Decisively, he got out of the car and headed in.

****** 

Fifteen minutes later he was ensconced in an armchair, a glass of scotch in hand, watching Bodie pace around the room. He obviously had something to say. He’d started to speak several times but seemed unable to continue. Doyle felt it best to let him get on with it rather than to spoil the impetus so, content for now, he watched Bodie, waiting for the words that would set his world back on its axis.

Bodie stopped pacing and turned to face Doyle. He was radiating tension, shoulders stiff and set.

“I’ve got something I need to say to you, Ray, and I’d really appreciate it if you would listen, hear me out, before you make a decision.”

“Okay, mate. Spit it out.” Now that the moment had come, the butterflies were back and he didn’t feel as if he could sit still for a moment longer. But if Bodie wanted him to listen then listen he would.

“Ray.” Bodie paused.

“Yes, Bodie.”

“We’ve known each other a long time and we’re mates, aren’t we?”

“Yes, Bodie.”

“I wanted you to be the first to know.”

Well, obviously he should be the first. How was Bodie going to resurrect their relationship if he wasn’t the first one to know? Doyle’s thoughts came abruptly back to what Bodie was saying.

“What? You want to do what?”

“I said I was getting married. Sophie said yes.”

“I thought that was what you said.” Cold chills ran up and down Doyle’s spine as what Bodie had said finally registered with him. All his hopes and plans came tumbling down around him once again. He’d totally misread Bodie’s invitation and could only be grateful that he’d heard the news in private and not in the rest room at work in front of the rest of the squad.

He had to get out now. He didn’t see the surprise on Bodie’s face as he sprang to his feet, carefully placing the glass of scotch on the coffee table and headed towards the front door.

“Ray! Ray! You haven’t heard …”

Doyle opened the door and paused, once more listening to his ex-lover.

“… what I wanted to ask you. Would you …”

Doyle interrupted. “… stay away from you. It would be my pleasure.”

Leaving before his voice broke, he slammed the door behind him thus completely missing the end of Bodie’s sentence.

“… be my best man.”

***** 

Ray Doyle was drenched. The rain hadn’t stopped for days. The streets of London were running with water and quite a lot of it was running off Doyle. He’d managed to wedge himself into a doorway across the road from his target. But the pediment above the door had been poorly repaired and the drip, drip, drip down the back of his neck wasn’t improving his mood. It felt like he’d been watching for hours. There’d been plenty of people in and out of the building, lots of activity on the steps, despite the inclement weather, but there’d been no sign yet of the party he wanted to see.

Pulling the sheepskin collar of his flight jacket close around his neck, he shivered. Whilst protecting his neck from the persistent dripping, the collar was already soaked so did nothing to keep him warm.

Then suddenly they were there. Getting out of a black cab.

***** 

Having fled Bodie’s flat following the announcement of impending marriage, Doyle had spent the rest of the night trying to decide what to do about it. It seemed he had totally misread the situation with Bodie. What he’d seen as Bodie’s renewed interest had merely been his partner’s way of keeping their working relationship viable whilst Bodie was pursuing this Sophie. How could he have been such a fool? Bodie had told him quite clearly that it was over. And like some kind of lovesick idiot, he hadn’t believed him. He’d wanted what they’d had before the Falklands. But it was gone. Finished.

***** 

So what was he doing standing across the road from Marylebone Register Office watching Bodie and Sophie climb the steps? Despite knowing that his personal relationship with Bodie was irrevocably finished, he just had to bear silent witness to his own lost dreams. Somehow, seeing the couple go into the Register Office, emerging some twenty minutes later, accompanied by Murphy and Susan Fischer and disappearing into another taxi, was the final confirmation that it was over. Maybe now he could move on.

***** 

Getting out of the taxi outside the Register Office, Bodie glanced round. The rain was pelting down so he and Sophie ran quickly up the steps and into the foyer. There’d been no sign of Doyle though why he expected him to be there, Bodie didn’t know. He hadn’t seen Doyle since the night he’d told him about his engagement. When he’d arrived at CI5 HQ the following morning, Cowley had called him in to tell him that he’d sent Doyle undercover in Birmingham.

There had been no late night phone calls, no postcards, no letters. No contact at all beyond the occasional comment from Cowley that the assignment was going well. Though why Bodie had expected there to be any contact from Ray, he didn’t know. But this was the first long term undercover assignment either had been given since their break-up and Bodie found himself reverting to old habits, expecting his partner to let him know everything was alright.

Paired with Murphy in the interim, they had been investigating an IRA cell in North London and it had been easy to ask Murphy to stand in as best man, using the undercover operation as the reason for Doyle’s unavailability to fulfil the role.

Waiting inside the foyer of the Register Officer were Murphy, Sue Fischer, George Cowley and Betty. Both he and Sophie had wanted a simple affair and had no close relatives to invite. The Register Office also fulfilled that requirement nicely. Well known for celebrity weddings, Marylebone was conveniently situated, which meant the CI5 staff could attend without disrupting their working day for too long.

Greeting their guests, Bodie and Sophie moved through to join the Registrar. During the short wait before the service began, Bodie reflected on how he’d come to be here.

Sophie Dawson had come to London from the US to study for a Master’s Degree in Medieval English Literature and had been looking for a way to remain in the UK when her visa expired. Her accidental involvement in a CI5 case led to her meeting Bodie, and he’d cleared her of any wrongdoing, and asked her for a date. One date led to several more and Sophie found herself in love with the darkly, handsome agent. Believing he wasn’t in love with her, she had resigned herself to returning to the US when he’d surprised her with a very romantic proposal, which she’d accepted.

Bodie had known she was in love with him and he’d done everything possible to convince her that the feeling was reciprocated. She was everything he’d believed he would ever want in a woman and, in trying to push Ray Doyle out of his emotional life, he’d seen Sophie as an escape route. Whilst this might have appeared harsh if he’d ever shared it with anyone else, he was genuinely fond of Sophie.

The Registrar signalled that he was ready to begin and Bodie’s attention snapped back to the present.

***** 

Bodie hadn’t made a general announcement about his plans but somehow everyone knew and a few of the senior agents had taken him out several nights earlier for his staff ‘do’. They’d all known that Doyle was out of town on assignment and had diplomatically said nothing to Bodie about the extended absence.

To his embarrassment, Cowley had called all the agents currently available in HQ to the briefing room the day before the wedding and had made a very brief speech to wish the couple all the very best for their future together before handing over the wedding gift. The canteen of cutlery had been selected by Betty and purchased with donations. There were cards and other small presents, some of which he wouldn’t be showing to Sophie.

To his surprise, Stewart was present and he had wished Bodie well before continuing with his usual lack of tact. “So where’s the best man then?”

Bodie indicated Murphy who was standing next to him. “He’s right here, mate.”

“Nah. Not him. Doyle. I thought he’d be back for this. It’s not every day that a man’s partner gets hitched.”

Bodie’s face had frozen at the mention of Doyle’s name and it was Murphy who rescued the oblivious Stewart by taking his arm and steering him to the opposite side of the room.

“Have you not heard from him then, Bodie?” asked an unusually gentle Scots burr.

Turning towards his boss, Bodie maintained the blank expression though his insides were churning. 

“Heard from who, sir?”

“Don’t be obtuse with me, man. Doyle, of course.”

“Why should I have heard from him? He’s still on assignment in Birmingham.”

“Ach. That all came to a head three days ago. He’d cleared everything with the local CID and was due back yesterday. I’ve given him a week’s leave.”

“You’ve seen him?”

“Of course I have. He came into the office to give his report.” Suspicion then laced Cowley’s tone as he continued. “He does know that the wedding is tomorrow, doesn’t he?”

“Well, I had no way of contacting him …”

“He’s always managed to disobey orders on previous solo assignments and call you. Not this time, eh?”

“Not this time, sir. We parted … well, let’s just say not on the best of terms.”

“I see.” Cowley’s comment was disapproving but it was Bodie who continued.

“I did send him an invitation. So he knows when and where. I’d like him to be there but I thought he was still away.”

“And that’s why Murphy is best man?”

“Yes, sir. That’s why.”

***** 

As he ushered his new wife into a black cab, accompanied by Murphy and Sue Fischer, Bodie took the opportunity to once more sweep the area. The rain had stopped whilst they were in the Register Office but the streets were still drenched. People were hurrying to and fro, umbrellas clashing. Traffic was building as the late November day edged towards the rush hour. Street lights were already casting their yellow glow. 

But there was no sign of the man he sought. Bodie had really hoped that Ray would have forgiven him enough to attend the service. It appeared that he would have to work even harder to maintain the working partnership once he returned from honeymoon.

***** 

As Bodie stepped into the cab after giving a quick look round, Doyle moved out of the doorway where he’d been sheltering. He’d thought Bodie had seen him and, for one awful moment, he’d imagined a scene on the steps of the Register Office as his ex-lover demanded an explanation for his non-attendance. But the cab pulled out into the increasingly heavy traffic and drove away with the most important person in Doyle’s life now committed to another.

***** 

“And I expect the two of you to continue to work as a team. Whatever your personal issues, leave them at the door.” Cowley had called both Bodie and Doyle into his office at 8am on the day the new husband returned to work. Neither of them expected to be told that their teaming was to continue. But when George Cowley laid down the law, everyone listened and obeyed.

“Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes, Mr Cowley.”

Simultaneous responses. Mirrored expressions trying to hide true feelings. Two bodies standing side by side but they might as well have been on the other side of the world from each other. Cowley studied them both. Good men. The best. And, hopefully, his decision to leave them paired would not rebound on the efficiency of the department. His department.

“Now I want you to pick up the Deptford case from Anson. He’ll fill you in. See if you can shake something loose. There’s something fishy about that case. I want it resolved. Now, be off with you.”

“Sir.” From Bodie.

A nod from Doyle.

They left the office as they’d entered, in silence. Cowley couldn’t quite believe that he was actually missing their banter.

***** 

Late one afternoon, sitting in the restroom, wasting time till they could go home, Bodie was sitting at the table playing Patience and Doyle was reading The Guardian. They’d settled back into their partnership after the confrontation with Cowley but it was like treading on eggshells. Neither knew what to say to the other so there were silences. Lots and lots of silences.

“I don’t bloody believe it!” Doyle’s exclamation disturbed the peace and quiet.

Not even looking up from his card game, Bodie carefully positioned the final card. “Patience,” he said.

“I don’t need patience!” Doyle snapped.

“What are you on about, Doyle? I just finished the game. First time in weeks it came out.”

Realising that Bodie had been paying no attention to him, Doyle took a calming breath, held out the section of the newspaper he’d been reading and said, “Look here. We’ve been conned.”

Taking the paper, Bodie scanned the headlines.

“What? I don’t see anything.”

“Not the text. The photograph. That one there.”

And a long index finger poked across the newspaper and stabbed at the photograph illustrating a new gallery opening.

“Yeah. What about it?” Bodie could see nothing of significance in the grainy black and white still.

“Don’t you recognise him? Second from the left. Tall geezer.”

Focussing, Bodie realised that he did indeed recognise the man Doyle was talking about.

“That’s what’s-his-name. The feller from the gallery. Hillyer.”

“So I thought until I read the caption underneath. That’s Summerhayes. He pulled the wool right over our eyes. Made proper wallies of us both.”

***** 

 

“Gawd. It stinks in here.” Bodie wrinkled his nose in distaste as the aroma in the warehouse reached out and smacked him.

“Petrol,” commented Doyle. “The report said they dowsed the guards in petrol and threatened to light them up if they didn’t reveal the vault codes.”

“Nasty.”

“Yeah. It could have been very nasty. If they’d gone through with the threat.” He pointed to the far side of the cavernous building. “The guards seem to be over there.”

“Leave them to the local boys for now. We need to check out the vault. See what all the fuss is about.”

“Right. Looks like the boys in blue have set up over there. Better let them know we’re here.”

Together, the partners walked across the echoing expanse of the aircraft hangar.

The call-out had come at 6.30am; an hour after the robbery was discovered by a guard arriving early for the shift change at 6.00am. CI5 HQ had monitored the original 999 call but it had been logged as an armed robbery – not CI5 business. But Cowley had been alerted soon after the uniformed officers arrived on scene and the partners had been despatched with the minimal information then available. There was something about the event, which called for CI5 attention.

In the six months since Bodie’s return to duty after his honeymoon, he and Doyle had followed Cowley’s orders. They worked together, day in, day out, still the same efficient, professional team but the spark had gone. There were no tussles in the corridor, no dirty jokes in the rest room, no quick comebacks, no sharing, nothing. It was as if they were strangers. As if the past ten years had never happened.

“May I help you, gentlemen?”

“Mornin’, Sarge. I’m Doyle. This is Bodie. CI5. Our boss got a call requesting our presence.”

“Ah, that would be DI Rowan.” The portly, uniformed sergeant turned back to the group of officers gathered around a dapper man in a light coloured suit. “Sir! DI Rowan!”

“Yes, sergeant.”

“These men are from CI5.”

“Thanks for coming down so quickly. I’m DI Rowan.” As he took note of the proffered ID badges, the DI also assessed the two men.

“Bodie. He’s Doyle. What happened here?”

“Armed robbery. This hangar is used to store bullion and other valuables before onward transport around the world. It’s a top security facility. State of the art vault. Armed guards 24 hours a day.”

As the DI talked, he was pointing out the facilities, walking them through the robbery.

“Just after midnight, the gang got into the hangar. We’re still trying to work out how they managed that.”

“Inside job?” asked Doyle as he glanced across at the security guards, who were being questioned by officers.

“We’re looking into that possibility. Certainly once they were inside they got the information they needed from the guards.”

“Petrol,” stated Bodie, walking several steps behind Doyle and the DI. Somehow his eyes continued to be drawn to his partner’s long legs and tight bum.

“Yeah,” agreed the DI. “These guys are good for a security detail but their training didn’t include how to resist a petrol dowsing and a cigarette lighter. They gave up the codes and that’s when the fun started.”

“How so?” Doyle was interested. Bodie could see how he leaned slightly towards the DI, his eyes avid with interest. On returning from honeymoon, Bodie believed that his marriage provided a barrier between him and Doyle. Certainly any personal interaction between them had dwindled to the minimum necessary to do the job but Bodie couldn’t help watching Doyle.

“It’s seems the gang was expecting to find diamonds in the vault but they certainly weren’t expecting silver bullion.”

“How much?” Bodie held up his end of the conversation even though his attention was centred on worn denim.

“We’re waiting for the final word on that from the insurers. They don’t start work until 9.00am.” Contempt for everyday office workers echoed in his voice. “But it could be around £15 million.”

“Substantial. But that’s not why you called in CI5.” Doyle knew there was something more. CID was more than capable of dealing with a straightforward armed robbery.

“Come through into the vault and I’ll show you.” DI Rowan led the way.

“Over there.” The DI waved towards a pile of wooden crates, which had been prised open and now lay empty. Bodie and Doyle hurried over. It was all too clear what they had contained.

“Quite a haul.” Bodie kicked over one of the crates, revealing that at least some of its contents had not been removed.

“Why were arms being stored in a security vault?” asked Doyle.

“Who knows?” responded the DI. “The paperwork says it was all being shipped out tomorrow. Well, today. Part of some trade deal, I suppose. Surprised the heck out of the robbers. The guards have given us chapter and verse as to how they reacted when they found this little lot along with the bullion. Couple of them were for making off with just the diamonds. Small packs, easy to carry. But one of the others swung the argument after making a telephone call. And, no, we haven’t been able to trace it. Then they had to figure out how to transport the stuff. Seems they’d only brought a car. So they sent a couple of the team out and an hour or so later they returned with two trucks. They had the cheek to use the guards to load up. The guys were still covered in petrol so had little choice but to comply. It was nearly dawn before they left.”

“So they’ve only had a couple of hour’s head start?”

“But we’ve no clue which way they went when they left the airfield. There’s so little traffic around here at that time of day so it’s unlikely we’ll find any witnesses. We’ll pick up on ’em when they try to fence the stuff. How many criminal gangs do you know who have the expertise to handle this much bullion? Especially as they came prepared for diamonds, nice and easy to fence. And they won’t have a clue what to do with the guns.”

“They’ll probably try to offload them as quickly as possible. A haul like that will be difficult to hide.” Doyle’s brain was obviously starting to follow all the leads.

“Well, that’s where you guys come in. Criminals we can deal with. But if this lot is shifted onto the terrorist market, you’ve got the contacts to find it.”

“Okay. Thanks for the heads-up. Send all the info you can to our boss. We’ll start trying to trace it.” Bodie offered his hand, which was taken in a firm handshake.

“Keep me informed.”

“We will.”

As they walked out of the hangar, heading back to the car, Doyle spoke first.

“Looks like those old merc contacts of yours are going to come in useful again.”

Although snide, it was the most personal comment Doyle had made to him in months. Bodie could only respond in like manner.

“Well, at least they know about guns. Not many of your grasses going to be of use, are they, Doyle?”

“True. Though if it does turn out to be terrorist-linked, we may find we both have the right connections.”

***** 

The room was dark, blackout blinds hidden behind teddy bear curtains, the only light source a glimmer under the door. The bars on the cot were solid and reached high above the baby’s head. But the mattress was soft and warm, the blankets just right for snuggling and a teddy bear sat in the corner, keeping watch. The bedroom door opened suddenly, slammed back against the wall, shaking the mobile over the cot. A huge dark shape stood between the light of the hallway and the darkness of the nursery.

The shape moved towards the cot and a whimper escaped the small child. The shape was a man but not recognisable. The whimper became a wail but no one came in answer.

The man grabbed the teddy. A hand reached out and pushed the child back down onto the mattress. The teddy was pushed down over the baby’s face …

Standing in the corner of the small bedroom, Ray Doyle was unable to move. He was only a spectator as horror unfolded before his eyes.

Surfacing from the nightmare, Doyle clicked the bedside lamp on, then lay quietly, waiting for his heartbeat and breathing to return to normal levels. His skin felt cold and clammy as his system reacted to the shock of witnessing the child’s death. It was always the same one. Of all the horrendous sights in his varied career, somehow the death of the McAllister baby had wormed into his psyche and every couple of months it would surface. Sometimes it was triggered by a seeming breakthrough in the murder investigation or another dead end. Sometimes it just happened and it triggered another burst of activity. Doyle was determined that the killer would not escape but he couldn’t devote himself to the case full-time. He did what he could, when he could and paid attention when the nightmare struck.

***** 

It was a very tired and somewhat bedraggled Doyle who slipped into the briefing room five minutes late. His entrance earned him a glare from Cowley and a glance from his partner.

After the briefing, Bodie found him slumped over his desk in the office they shared with the other A Squad agents 

“You look like something the cat dragged in,” he commented unsympathetically as he dropped several overflowing folders onto the desk. “Late night?” Although he asked the question, his tone implied that he didn’t care about the answer. His gaze, however, was concerned but his expression was once more carefully indifferent when Doyle raised his head.

“Didn’t sleep too well.” He shrugged off his tiredness and turned his attention to the folders. “What’s Cowley got for us now?”

*****

“Ray? It’s Tony.”

Doyle smiled at hearing his friend’s voice down the telephone line. “Tony! How are you?”

“Good, Ray, I’m good. Look, I think I might have found the painting.”

“What painting?”

“You can’t have forgotten already. The harbour scene by Shona Pierce.”

“You have it?”

“I have it. Looking at it right now.”

“How on earth did you get your hands on it?”

“I’ll tell you all about it when I see you. How soon can you get over to the gallery?”

Doyle glanced at the never-ending pile of files he was supposed to be checking. “About an hour, I guess. Have you told anyone else?”

“I rang the insurance company. They’re going to send an investigator over to ascertain whether or not it’s the real deal. But there’s no question in my mind that it’s the right one.”

“That’s great, Tony. I’ll see you soon.”

“See you soon. Oh, and Ray … I was right about the painting being unbalanced. I’ll show you when you get here.”

***** 

It was closer to two hours by the time Doyle could get away from HQ. The McAllister case was no longer a priority and it took some fast talking to persuade Cowley that he might now have a lead that was going to pan out. And it was forty five minutes after that when he parked the car just down the street from ‘Liddle’s’, Tony’s Mayfair gallery. 

He knew immediately that there was something wrong. There were two police cars parked askew the kerb outside the gallery, a uniformed officer standing guard on the entrance, a small crowd of interested bystanders being kept at bay by the bright yellow tape. 

His CI5 ID got him through the front door and he followed the sounds of activity to the small office at the rear of the gallery. He immediately wished he hadn’t.

His friend’s half-naked body lay across the desk. Someone had wanted something from him. Several fingernails had been torn out by the roots, cigarette burns were scattered across his chest and a single bullet wound in the middle of his forehead had finished the job. Tony Liddle wasn’t a hard man. He’d never fought in his life but he’d obviously fought for his life if the wrecked office was telling the truth.

“Oh God! Tony!” Doyle couldn’t help the exclamation and it brought him to the attention of the officer who’d been surveying the office.

“How the hell did you get in here? This is a crime scene.” 

The angry voice brought Doyle back. He tore his gaze away from the body.

“Doyle. CI5. And a friend of your victim. I came to see him. Who called it in?”

“DI Crane,” the middle-aged cop introduced himself before he continued. “An insurance investigator called Michael Gates. Apparently the victim …”

“Anthony Liddle. His name is … was Anthony Liddle.”

“… Mr Liddle called Valiant Insurance this morning about a stolen painting. Mr Gates came to authenticate it.”

“He called me too. He was thrilled to have found the piece. Wanted to show me something.”

“Which painting was it?”

“A landscape by Shona Pierce. Depicting a harbour.”

“Well, I haven’t had a lot of time to look around but I’d say it wasn’t here now. There are no landscapes in the gallery.”

“Tony specialised in portraits. But he had contacts throughout the business. And he knew of my interest in the painting.”

“Why would CI5 be interested in a landscape?”

“It’s part of an on-going investigation. Need to know only.”

“And I don’t need to know. Okay, Mr Doyle, do you want to be kept informed on this investigation?”

“I do. Tony was a friend, a good friend. He shouldn’t have died like this.”

***** 

“You’re a fucking idiot, Doyle! What are you doing involving yourself in a murder case? That’s CID’s responsibility not CI5’s.” 

The rant had been going on for a good five minutes. Ever since Bodie had found out that Doyle was once again investigating the McAllister case, having kept in touch with DI Crane. 

Though nothing new had come to light, Doyle continued to believe that the painting held some clue, which would help to resolve the family’s murder. And once it was resolved, his nightmare might fade away to join its predecessors.

Still exhausted after a series of sleepless nights following Tony’s murder, Doyle had yet to counter any of Bodie’s accusations.

“You know, as well as I do, that Cowley would have your guts for garters if he found out you were interfering in a police case!”

“I’m not interfering.” Finally Doyle interrupted the flow of words. “I’m pursuing separate lines of enquiry and I’m keeping CID informed. The McAllister case is still an open file.”

“I know that but we’ve got enough on without you getting distracted by a bloody painting.” Bodie was pacing around the office, almost throwing his arms in the air as he expressed his disquiet at Doyle’s behaviour.

“It’s the painting that might hold the key to the whole case.”

“So you say.”

“Goddamn it, Bodie! It’s none of your business what I spend my time on.”

“It is when it affects how you work with me. You look like death warmed up. I wouldn’t fancy your chances if something big goes down.”

“Get off my back, Bodie. What happened to trusting your partner? I’m working a case.”

“A cold case, which has nothing to do with what you should be working on.”

“If you’ve any complaints about my ability to do my job, take them to Cowley.” 

“And don’t think I won’t if this carries on. Jeez, Ray, you can’t continue to burn the candle at both ends.” Bodie tried to calm the situation. 

“I’m fine, Bodie. Just a little tired.” Doyle recognised his partner’s attempt to avoid a full-blown confrontation. As he also didn’t want to have a row, he backed off.

“Have you looked in the mirror recently? I could go on holiday with the bags under your eyes.” Still exasperated, Bodie turned to humour.

“I’m fine … I’ll be there if needed.”

“Maybe so but get some sleep before Cowley sees you.”

***** 

The raised voices had attracted attention from passing agents. Most ignored it but Murphy and Jax paused outside the office door.

“What d’you think? Break it up or ignore them?” asked Murphy.

“Leave ’em. It’s the most normal conversation those two have had in months.”

“Yeah, true. I was beginning to think that Doyle had taken a vow of silence.”

Before Jax could offer a further observation, a door opened further down the corridor and a very familiar voice yelled.

“Bodie! Doyle! My office now!”

Discretion being the better part of valour, the two eavesdropping agents hurried off in the opposite direction as the agents’ office door opened.

“His Master’s Voice,” drawled Bodie as he exited and turned towards Cowley’s office.

“To hear is to obey,” added Doyle as he followed.

***** 

If anyone had ever asked Bodie if he was the domesticated sort, the answer would have been a derisive snort or a fist in the face. Like any single man of his age, he managed to keep body and soul together, having taught himself the basics of housework and putting meals together. Even during his relationship with Doyle, they’d been on the hop most of the time with work so household chores were bursts of activity on occasional days off.

Now, with Sophie, he found there was a lot of pleasure to be had from sharing the tasks necessary to run a home as opposed to somewhere to eat and sleep. They were still accommodated by CI5 and the job still ran him ragged with irregular hours and snatched meals but there were also down times when he and Sophie were able to take the time to plan meals, to shop together, to decide whether to change the décor in any particular tied property.

Sophie proved to be a dab hand at DIY and chose to do a lot of little jobs around their flats rather than call on the Accommodation Office. Bodie didn’t know one end of a drill from another but was happy to be chief assistant when called upon.

They were comfortable together, sharing a lot of interests or enjoying discovering what one liked and the other knew nothing about. Bodie had always loved poetry but had mainly read the Victorian era – Keats, Shelley and the like – whilst Sophie had studied the medieval and Elizabethan poets – Donne, Marvell etc – so they read out loud to each other from their favourites. Often Bodie silently mocked himself for having found pleasure in such activities. They were certainly a major change to the day job and the interests he’d shared with Doyle. And there his thoughts veered away from his memories of Doyle and he pushed them back where they belonged. In the past.

*****

Eventually Bodie found out why Doyle wasn’t sleeping.

They were on stake-out, utilising a dingy bedsitter on the first floor of a dilapidated Victorian terrace. The house under observation was suspected of being in use by a terrorist cell but, so far, after two boring days, nothing had happened. No one in. No one out.

Bodie was on watch, perched on a wooden chair, peering through the binoculars. He could swear he knew every brick, every missing bit of cement, every slipped tile on the house. A noise from the bed on the other side of the room caught his attention and he looked over at his partner.

Doyle had been asleep for about an hour. He’d insisted that he didn’t need a nap but Bodie had nagged until he’d given in. Now he was restless, head tossing, hands clenching. Bodie watched for a minute as Doyle got more and more distressed.

With one last glance through the binoculars, he got up and crossed the room. Standing over the bed, he hesitated. Should he wake Ray? What was the best way to do so? He didn’t fancy being knocked across the room if Doyle was disturbed. Just as he reached over to shake the sleeper’s shoulder, the green eyes opened.

It was immediately obvious that Doyle wasn’t fully conscious. His eyes widened and his face contorted. He was absolutely terrified.

Bodie froze.

Minutes passed … or possibly only seconds … and Doyle took a deep, shuddering breath, eyes suddenly focussing.

“Bodie?”

“Bloody hell, mate. What the hell was that all about?” Feeling the need to offer comfort, he sat on the edge of the bed and pulled a shivering Doyle into his arms. 

“It was just a dream.” The voice was low, husky with sleep, and hesitant.

“Some dream.” As Doyle tried to pull away, Bodie tightened the hug. “Is that the reason why you’ve been walking round half asleep for the last two weeks?”

“None of your business, Bodie.” Though the words were belligerent, the tone was weary.

“It is so my business. You’re my partner.” A simple statement of fact. But something that had been under threat for the last three years. “And if this is the reason why you look like shit, then maybe talking about it would help.”

Doyle pulled back slightly. Bodie relaxed the hug but maintained contact. Studying the sombre face of his partner, Doyle must have seen something to reassure him as he relaxed a little. Bodie let him go and he wrapped his arms around his knees, needing the comfort of a hug but unwilling to maintain the contact with his partner.

Hesitantly, Doyle started to speak.

“You know this job can give you nightmares. The mind’s way of working out what went wrong. Most of the time, they’re a one-off. Wake you up once and never return.” He rubbed one hand through his curls, creating even more disorder.

“Go on, Ray.” Bodie encouraged gently.

“You remember the McAllister case?”

“Of course I do.”

“And the children? Oh God, Bodie, I can’t forget the children. The nightmare is always the same. I see Edward …”

“Edward …?”

“The baby. I’m standing in the corner of his bedroom. I see him wake up in his cot. Someone comes into the room. I can’t see who it is and neither can he but he knows it’s not his Mum or Dad. Then the teddy is put over his face and he can’t breathe. I can see him struggling but he has no chance against an adult. I can’t move. I can’t help him. That’s when I usually wake up.”

“And what triggers these nightmares?”

“Any new lead in the case just brings it all back.”

“Then you need to give up on the case. You can’t go on like this.”

“I can’t Bodie. I just can’t.”

“It’s eating you up. You know how dangerous obsession can be. You need to be concentrating on the work Cowley assigns, not on a personal vendetta.”

“It’s not a vendetta. I just need to find out what happened to that family. I owe it to them.”

“You don’t owe anything to the McAllisters,” Bodie grabbed hold of Doyle’s shoulders as if to shake him. “You owe Cowley and you owe me. Snap out of it, Doyle.” The grasp on the shoulders, though firm, didn’t progress to a shake. Bodie continued. “Just find something else to concentrate on.”


	9. Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine October 1985 to May 1986

A Doyle wedding was an event. Even with only three months to organise it, Peggy Doyle had done her son proud. Relatives had descended on the Doyle family home from Ireland, from Scotland, from Cornwall, from Wales and all points in between. Uncles and aunts, nieces and nephews, cousins, second cousins, third cousins twice removed; along with friends from school, art college, the Met and CI5 all filled the magnificent St Mary’s church in Derby. And matching them on the bride’s side were all the family and friends of Megan Ashbridge, the woman Ray Doyle was marrying on this bright October day.

Bodie had never seen anything like it. Oh, he’d attended large weddings before but, somehow, the Doyle and Ashbridge clans were just so much more vibrant. Afterwards he would remember the day as a kaleidoscope of bits and pieces.

When he’d told Ray to find something else to concentrate on, he’d never dreamed that this would be the solution. Ray had been seeing Megan on a casual basis for several months. Having seen them together on a couple of occasions, Bodie would have said that Ray was fond of the petite brunette but not that he was in love with her. So the engagement announcement so soon after his suggestion had stunned him. Somehow he’d never imagined Ray marrying.

Yet marrying Sophie had been a way to put a further barrier between himself and Doyle so why shouldn’t Ray come up with a similar solution? If, indeed, that was what Doyle was doing. Just because it was Bodie’s solution didn’t mean that it was the same for Doyle.

When they had married he had merely been fond of Sophie but, in the months since, he’d grown to love her. It was one reason why they were sitting in this church waiting for the ceremony to begin. When the invitation had arrived in the post, he’d opened it at the breakfast table. Before he could say that he was turning it down, Sophie was planning her outfit. She’d never been to an English church wedding and thought it would be just peachy to attend. She’d met Ray Doyle several times, once with Megan, and liked the couple. After all the man was her husband’s partner so she didn’t hesitate in pushing Bodie to attend.

Sitting in a pew about halfway down the groom’s side of the church, Bodie couldn’t believe the noise being generated by the congregation. His childhood memories of church services were of hushed, reverent adults and a sharp elbow in the ribs if he made the slightest wriggle.

Suddenly, as if they were one being, the congregation stopped talking, giggling, moving around. Children returned to their parents and settled. Taking advantage of his height, Bodie peered over the heads in front of him to see Ray Doyle come out of the vestry to position himself at the top of the aisle in front of the ornate altar. He was accompanied by Murphy.

The sight of another man standing with Ray sent an odd little pang of what could only be called jealousy through him. Yet he knew there was no way he deserved that honour. Their relationship as partners was on a much better footing since the nightmare incident but they were still on shaky ground as friends.

***** 

Entering the main body of the church from the vestry, Ray Doyle paused to take in the sheer mass of people. The noise he’d heard as he had waited for his cue to enter now died away and all eyes were on him. He tried to take it all in but there was such an array of colour; everyone in their wedding ‘best’. Added to the human element were the colours of the church itself, gleaming from the hard work put in by the local Women’s Confraternity. Every bit of woodwork, all the marble, the glass and tiles shone in the sunlight streaming through the stained-glass windows. Flowers, artfully arranged, decorated every flat surface. His sisters had done him proud.

Feeling a slight nudge from Murphy, who had followed him into the body of the church, Ray realised that he couldn’t stand and stare any longer.

As he made his way to his place at the foot of the altar, he quickly scanned the rows of faces all staring at him. There he was. Bodie was about halfway down the pews. Ray could see a brightly coloured hat next to him – Sophie. He was glad they’d accepted the invitation. He was glad they’d come. Perhaps now, with this day underway, he could put the final nail in the Berlin Wall he’d built around that period of his life: a wall labelled Bodie: Keep Out.

***** 

The atmosphere in the church was now expectant as all waited for the main event to begin. Father O’Malley joined Ray and Murphy, smiling reassuringly at the bound-to-be nervous groom.

In the organ loft at the rear of the church, the organist awaited the signal.

Father O’Malley nodded, indicating the main doors, and Ray turned round just as the organist filled the air with the opening notes of Jeremiah Clarke’s Trumpet Voluntary. His breath caught in his throat at his first glimpse of Megan, a smiling vision in white lace and autumn flowers; garden roses, mint, rosemary, ivy and rosehips scenting the air around her as she seemed to float down the aisle, hand resting lightly on her father’s arm.

Her smile was just for him and he knew that now he could forget all about the past, put it all where it belonged, locked away forever. With one last glance towards the still figure of his partner, Ray held out his hand, taking charge of his bride.

***** 

Bodie’s eyes were fixed on the groom. So much so that he missed the bride’s entrance and was surprised when a white clad figure suddenly joined Ray at the altar. He was entranced at the sight of Ray Doyle in full grey morning dress, tailcoat, cravat, high collared shirt and, tucked under his arm, a top hat. Trying to imagine the hat perched on Ray’s curls almost raised a smile.

For Bodie, the service was interminable. The couple had agreed to the full nuptial mass, which added an hour to the Catholic wedding service. The magnificent church rang to the rafters as the whole congregation enthusiastically joined the choir in celebration of the union. 

But neither Bodie nor Sophie had a clue as to what was going on. They both followed the people around them as they stood, sat, knelt in turn. When it came to communion, they stayed in the pew though it seemed that everyone else joined the queue. However, looking around, Bodie could see a number of other slightly uncomfortable figures. The service was a mystery to most of the members of CI5, including Cowley, as well as Doyle’s old colleagues from the Met and friends from art college, so they had also stayed in their seats.

At last the couple disappeared with Father O’Malley, Murphy and the chief bridesmaid to sign the register, which would legalise the marriage. The organist played a selection, including Annie’s Song by John Denver, Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring by Bach, to keep the mood of the congregation focussed on the happy couple for the ten minutes they were out of sight.

A huge sigh went up as Ray and Megan reappeared, standing for a moment at the head of the aisle, before starting to leave the church to Mendelssohn’s Wedding March. They stopped every few feet to shake hands or hug, as appropriate, accepting congratulations as they made their way to the double exit doors.

Once outside, the photographer and his assistant had their work cut out for them, trying to organise the various groups.

Nieces and nephews, second cousins and friends’ children added to the chaos as gradually everyone was recorded for posterity. Even Cowley consented to be part of a group shot of CI5 personnel, as long as the photograph was for the wedding album only. It probably wasn’t appropriate to slap a D-notice on a wedding picture but CI5 security had to be maintained but a quiet word with the photographer was sufficient.

Eventually the whole crowd was shepherded to the church hall for a three-course sit-down meal, catered by a local hotel. After a pause for speeches, with a particularly amusing one from Murphy, and a somewhat embarrassed “thank you” from Doyle, a disco was set up and everyone persuaded to dance after Ray and Megan took to the floor to the Carpenter’s “We’ve Only Just Begun”. The bride and groom toured the room, making sure they spoke to everyone, thanking them for coming and for the presents, currently laid out in Mrs Doyle’s house like the treasure trove of King Tut.

Gradually the music slowed, children were hurried away to bed and Ray and Megan ushered into a limousine that would take them to the hotel where they would spend their first night as man and wife. Two week’s honeymoon in Italy was to follow.

Bodie and Sophie stood at the back of the crowd watching the limo disappear. Slowly he became aware of her hand on his arm, urging him away.

“Come on, Bodie. Time to leave.”

“Okay, love. Have you got the car keys?”

“Right here. I’ll drive. You’ve had too much to drink.”

“Me? Never.”

“Don’t pull that one on me, mister. You’re entitled. It’s not every day your partner gets married.”

It certainly wasn’t every day that you realised you’d finally got what you wanted. The trouble was that Bodie now realised that he was not sure that it was, in fact, what he actually wanted.

*****

“Take a seat, gentlemen.” Cowley indicated the two chairs on the other side of his desk.

A quick glance at each other, registering relief that it wasn’t a bollocking, the partners sat. Bodie upright and attentive, Doyle as relaxed as he could be in a hardback chair whilst not knowing what the boss wanted of them. Cowley shuffled a few folders on his desk, placed his pen down precisely and cleared his throat.

“As you know, CI5 has always been somewhat unique as a government organisation. Once I was given the remit to form a security force to tackle serious crime and terrorism, CI5 became, and has remained, my responsibility. I believe that, over the years, we have established our worth as a security organisation. But there will always be those who try to gainsay us and I believe it is now time to look to the future.”

He paused, looking intently at the two men opposite him. Neither had moved but he could see the nervous tension holding them to the chairs. They were well trained, experienced, intelligent, personable individuals. He knew that both of them were trying to work out where his discourse was leading. He hoped to be able to surprise them one more time.

“If this organisation is to survive either my retirement or death …” He stopped as both men became even more alert. “… and I plan on neither happenstance in the near future, there needs to be a succession plan in place. As you know, I have no great love for, nor trust in, politicians so I have planned accordingly.”

Again a pause, as if he had to gather his thoughts. Not something that Cowley was known for. Rather than continuing with his explanation, he rose, crossed to the bookcase and retrieved three glasses and a bottle of malt. Returning to his desk, he poured three measures.

“I think we all might need this.”

Unable to contain his curiosity any longer, Doyle spoke up as he reached over to pick up a heavy glass tumbler.

“What is it, sir? What are you trying to tell us?”

Passing the glass to Bodie, almost without looking, he then picked up his own glass and took a sip. Both men looked expectantly at their boss.

“Alright, gentlemen, I’ll not keep you in suspense any longer. I have persuaded the Prime Minister that it’s time to appoint a Deputy Controller to take some of the workload off my desk with a view to eventually taking over when I retire. It is appreciated that this will be no easy task for anyone to take on and it is expected that the Deputy would need at least five years to grow into the senior role. To this end, and because we are, after all, part of the Civil Service, the role will be advertised internally. I expect you two to apply.”

With that bombshell, he put his glass down on the desk and stared back at them, taking in the shell-shocked expressions.

***** 

Gossip in the rest room focussed on who would apply for the role but there were few who believed that the appointment would go to an internal candidate. Over the years, Cowley had built a strong team of active agents, backed by trainers, research and administration staff. However, the general consensus was that the appointment would be politically motivated.

Every time Bodie and Doyle entered the room, someone would ask if they’d applied yet. In the end, they took to using the agents’ office as a hiding place. The senior agents, though speculating, tended to avoid the direct approach.

Flicking through the McAllister file, Doyle glanced up as the office door opened. Expecting Bodie with a much needed mug of tea, he was surprised to see Stewart, who hadn’t been seen in HQ for some months.

“Hey, Doyle.”

“Stewart. What you doing away from the streets of South London?”

“Came in to talk to Cowley.”

“Something breaking?”

“Nah. Throwing my hat in the ring for the Deputy Controller job.”

Closing the file, Doyle arched an eyebrow in query.

“I thought the applications closed last week.”

“I’ve been out of touch for a while but I think Cowley saw my point about the role needing someone with street experience.”

“So you’re applying?”

“Oh yes. Just got to fill in the paperwork. Well, I’d better get on with it. See you, Doyle.” 

And with that he left an amused Doyle. Having worked with Stewart on a number of occasions, Doyle was unsurprised by the arrogance of the man. He would have loved to have been a fly on the wall when Cowley heard that Stewart was applying.

***** 

When he related the encounter to Bodie, his partner didn’t share his amusement.

“Cowley can’t seriously mean to consider that prat as his successor.”

“What’s wrong with him? He’s an experienced senior agent. Cowley said he wanted to utilise the knowledge the department had gained.”

“Not that arrogant sod.”

“Well, it’s out of our hands.”

***** 

Like all Civil Service processes, the recruitment of the Deputy Controller took a considerable amount of time. There were interviews, assessments, further interviews and then nothing. Not even the rumour mill had a clue as to what was happening, as to why there was a delay in an announcement. 

Getting on with the day job occupied Bodie and Doyle almost 24/7. In fact, they were so busy, they almost forgot that they’d applied and been scrutinised.

So it came as a bit of a shock when they were called to Cowley’s office and found the Controller smiling at them.

***** 

“Congratulations! I’m delighted to confirm your appointment as Deputy Controllers. It was obvious during the recruitment process that you two were the outstanding candidates and the assessment board was at gridlock until I suggested you could share the role. You’ll get formal confirmation from Personnel in due course but I wanted to get you started in the role straightaway.” Cowley got straight to the point. 

“We’re off the street then?” asked Doyle, ever direct.

“Not immediately. You’re joint controllers so you’ll take charge of several operations, get used to working strategically and you’ll join me at ministerial meetings. I expect you to work together.”

“Partners still, eh, sir?”

“Indeed, Bodie, partners still.”

***** 

When the announcement of the appointments appeared on the noticeboards around the building, there were a lot of comments about there being two deputies instead of the advertised one. But no real surprise at the names attached. Bodie and Doyle, however, were surprised at the number of congratulatory comments they received and genuinely warm wishes from nearly everyone.

Stewart wasn’t seen in HQ again for nearly eight months.


	10. Chapter Ten

Chapter Ten June 1986 to January 1987

“She’s pregnant.”

The words dropped into a sudden gap in the hubbub of conversation in the rest room like a pebble dropped into a pool of still water. The ripples spread out as conversation re-started. Some ignored it; some congratulated the father-to-be; one person froze as a sudden frisson ran through him.

Bodie and Doyle had settled into their new roles quickly. Somehow the skills acquired on the streets proved just as useful walking the corridors of Whitehall. Cowley had them running operations, leading the teams of agents they’d worked alongside, as well as accompanying him to meetings with government officials, MPs, embassy staff, businessmen. Sometimes they worked together, sometimes separately, pretty much as they’d done ever since being partnered.

Although they shared a large office next to Cowley’s, they’d continued to take breaks in the rest room, partly to maintain contact with the agents, partly to get the best tea in the building. Despite the paucity of resources for furnishings, Cowley had always found sufficient funds for guns, ammunition, cars, the back-up facilities so essential for the smooth running of ops and, of course, refreshments. He had never skimped the budget for tea and coffee in the rest room. Even the canteen couldn’t compete in the making of a good cuppa.

On this particular day, Bodie had been talking to Jax, who’d commented on an air of barely suppressed excitement and the response had been “She’s pregnant”.

Doyle had just come into the rest room seeking Bodie for his help with a munitions report and a good cup of tea. In the months since his marriage to Megan, he and Bodie had worked well together. To all outward appearances, their more personal relationship might never have happened. And most days Doyle knew he was a lucky man. He had a beautiful, talented wife, who loved him and he loved her. He had a job he loved, getting more interesting each day. He had a partner he trusted and a boss he respected. Yes, he was a very lucky man. But just occasionally something would happen that reminded him of what he’d lost.

That very familiar voice said, “She’s pregnant.”

And what could Doyle do but congratulate the very smug, but somewhat bemused, Bodie.

***** 

It was Bodie who spotted it. Just a small article on Page 5 of The Evening Standard. They’d been enjoying a much overdue tea break, relaxing in an unusually quiet rest room, taking the time to catch up with the newspapers.

Thrusting the folded paper under Doyle’s nose, he just missed the mug of tea being raised to his mouth.

“Here. Take a look at that.”

“Watch it. You nearly scalded me.”

“Just read it.”

Snatching the paper out of his partner’s hands, Doyle focussed on the print.

“Charles and Di …” he started.

“Not that one. This …” A finger stabbed across to indicate the piece Bodie wanted him to read.

“Oh, that one.” Doyle’s tone was teasing. Their working relationship had settled down once more as they took on their new tasks, each concentrating on proving that they were the right men for the job. Their social lives no longer intertwined although there were formal occasions when they appeared with Sophie and Megan.

As he started to read, Doyle’s face became intent. The piece was only short but he read it several times before raising his eyes to meet Bodie’s.

“Do you think …?”

“Yeah. I do. It may be the link you’ve been looking for on the McAllister case.”

“After all this time.”

“Don’t get your hopes up. That damned case has more red herrings than a North Sea trawler.”

“But worth a bit of time?”

“Let’s find out who’s running the CID end.”

***** 

DI Crane smiled as he recognised the man entering his office.

“To what do I owe this honour? CI5 in my humble abode.”

“Give over, Denny. I’ve been in your office before.”

“But not usually trailing back-up.” The detective nodded towards the man who’d followed Doyle into the room.

“Denny Crane meet Bodie,” introduced Doyle.

“The other Deputy Controller?”

“The same,” confirmed Bodie as he offered his hand and found it taken in a firm grip.

“I met DI Crane when he was the lead on Tony Liddle’s murder. We’ve had the occasional meet since whenever leads have come to light.” Doyle explained.

“So what can I do for CI5?” queried Crane, indicating that they should take a seat somewhere in his tiny, crowded office.

“You can fill us in on the Wally Peterson murder.”

“What on earth is CI5’s interest in a sleazebag like Peterson?”

“Nothing specific.” Doyle found a perch on the edge of a desk, which was disappearing under the weight of paper. “There was very little detail in the newspaper article that alerted me but I’ve got a feeling it ties in with Tony Liddle’s murder.”

“And I’ve learned to trust his feelings,” commented Bodie as he found a chair hidden under a mound of folders. Having balanced them precariously on a two-drawer filing cabinet, he sat down.

“Well, you’re not wrong, Doyle. What the paper didn’t say, of course, cos we haven’t released the detail to the press, is that Peterson was tortured before he was killed.”

“Point blank to the forehead.” Doyle stated and Crane nodded.

“Yup. Same MO as the Liddle murder and just about as much evidence, which is to say zilch.”

“So what do you know? Are there links between the two deaths? Other than Peterson being an artists’ agent.” Doyle asked, leaning forward, his face intent.

“Wally Peterson dabbled. Oh, he was an artists’ agent alright but he had so many sidelines I don’t think he even knew them all.”

“Not changed much then,” commented Doyle.

“You knew him?”

“I was Met before I joined this mob.” He grinned as Bodie rolled his eyes but continued. “At one point, I was with the Drugs Squad operating out of Hackney Central. Peterson was one of Singer’s snitches. Never gave us anything much but I met with him several times. How did he end up with a Knightsbridge gallery?”

“Who knows? From what we’ve been able to piece together so far, he didn’t own the place though he never admitted as much. As I said earlier, he dabbled. And the gallery wasn’t totally legit. He was known to deal in dodgy stuff though the Fraud boys were never able to pin anything specific on him.”

“You also said there were links to Tony’s murder. Anything other than the MO?”

“Are you psychic, Doyle?” DI Crane lifted a folder off one of the piles of paper on his desk and passed it across. “Recognise any of those?”

Opening the file, Doyle shuffled through about a dozen photographs, stopping suddenly at one in particular, which he handed to Bodie as he said. “Definitely recognise that one. It’s Shona Pierce’s harbour scene.”

“Stolen from the Summerhayes Gallery four years ago. Believed to have been in the possession of Tony Liddle before he died. And that whole collection of photographs is of what we believe to be stolen artwork. And found at Peterson’s.”

“Coincidence?” asked Bodie, handing the photograph back to Doyle, who returned it to the folder.

“I don’t believe so. He was fencing stolen artwork along with the legit stuff. He was, of course, questioned about the Summerhayes robbery but he was a slippery bugger. No proof. Just lots of suspicion.”

“Why the photographs?” queried Bodie. “Why keep evidence of stolen property? Assuming the rest of the photos are of stolen property.”

“We’ve identified about half so far. All stolen over the last ten years. And no clue as to their current whereabouts. Peterson probably kept them as a souvenir or may be as insurance. They were hidden behind a painting of a safe.”

“Subtle,” sniggered Doyle.

“It was a very good painting of a safe!” Crane grinned. “Anyway, that’s about it. There were no signs of a break-in, no fingerprints, the security cameras were turned off. I’d say he knew his killer, let ’em in and wham!”

“And no clue as to why he was tortured?”

“This psycho probably doesn’t need a reason. Whatever reason he had for killing Peterson, he took his time over it. Unlike Liddle, where we believe he was after the Pierce painting, there appears to be no reason for killing Wally.”

“Unless he stole from the wrong person,” stated Bodie.

“Ah, yes, there is that,” agreed Crane.

“Then we’re no further forward with the McAllister case,” said Doyle, getting to his feet. “Thanks for the info. I guess it goes on the back burner again.”

***** 

“Twins! Who’d a thunk it?”

“What are you on about?”

“Whoever would have thought it? Bodie. A daddy and to twins at that.”

“Yeah … it is a little … strange.”

Doyle’s introspection temporarily silenced Murphy who’d popped his head round the Deputy Controllers’ door to see if he could persuade him to take a break. Since Sophie had gone into labour several weeks before her due date, Cowley had practically chased Bodie out of the office, assuring him that the work would still be there when he got back. That comment had seemed to fire Doyle up and he was working ever longer hours, trying to cover both his and Bodie’s workload.

“Come on, mate. You’ve been locked in here for hours. Some of the lads are going to the Red Lion to wet the babies’ heads.”

Doyle just stared at him blankly as if he hadn’t heard a word. As he started to shake his head, Murphy grabbed the jacket that had been slung on top of the filing cabinet. “It would look very odd indeed if his partner didn’t celebrate. And Bodie won’t be there.”

Murphy’s tone was sympathetic, his eyes reflecting his concern. He’d watched the partners over the years. He’d been aware of their affair and seen it all fall apart, though neither had ever confided in him. He’d stood by them both when they married. His voice had been one of the first raised in congratulation when their appointment as Deputy Controllers was announced. Now he offered support without verbalising his concern that, though separated by marriage, this new development in Bodie’s life was having a profound effect on Doyle.

Murphy held out the jacket. Doyle looked at him, seeing the concern, then he smiled ruefully. Nodding, he gathered the folders together and dropped them into the metal in-tray. Standing, he accepted the jacket and shrugged into it.

“Come on then. I could do with a drink.”

**** 

Bodie returned to work looking pale and hollow-eyed.

“They don’t sleep,” he complained to Jax. “Or rather when one sleeps, the other doesn’t.”

Jax laughed. “Discovering the joys of fatherhood already, Bodie.”

“What joys? So far they eat, sleep, dirty nappies, oh, and spew up whatever they’ve just eaten.”

“You don’t fool me, mate. You’re loving it. Daddy Bodie!”

As a long-established family man, Jax recognised a fellow addict. Despite the lack of sleep, there was a contentment to Bodie’s demeanour that had been missing for a long time. Trying to put his finger on it, Jax realised that he hadn’t seen it since Bodie returned from The Falklands. Four and a half years. Maybe being a father would keep Bodie settled along with his new more senior role in CI5.

***** 

Several weeks later, with the lull in operations holding, Bodie left a meeting with Cowley and tracked his fellow Deputy Controller to the rest room. Doyle was tucked into a corner of a couch, mug of tea in one hand, a folded newspaper in the other.

Anson, Murphy and McCabe met him in the doorway, grinning and slapping his shoulders as they exited. It seemed the novelty of the twins’ birth had yet to wear off.

Pausing just inside the door, he contemplated the relaxed figure, who seemed oblivious to his presence. He cleared his throat with a slight cough.

“Er … Ray?”

Doyle looked up. His expression giving nothing away. Bodie shuffled his feet slightly.

“Erm …”

A slight smile appeared on the face in front of him.

“Go on, Bodie, spit it out.”

“Well, it’s just that you and I have been working well together and … er … I wondered whether I could ask you something.”

“We’re still partners. No reason why you can’t ask me anything you like.”

“Ah … it’s personal.”

At that Doyle’s expression became cautious. Their personal contact outside work was still restricted and such topics of conversation were generally avoided.

“Go on. I’m listening.”

Bodie moved further into the room, perching on the arm of the couch occupied by Doyle. He seemed to visibly gather his courage as he got to the point.

“Sophie and I would really appreciate it if you would stand as godfather to Andy and Ray.”

Doyle couldn’t have looked more stupefied if Cowley had walked through the door naked. He couldn’t think of an appropriate response so just stared at his partner.

Bodie leant forward, clasping both hands together, as if he could reinforce his request by pleading.

“It wouldn’t involve much. Just the Christening and birthdays and Christmas and such. Sophie reckons they make more of it in the States but, over here, it’s really just a formality.”

Swallowing hard, Doyle finally found a response.

“You’ve named one of them after me?”

“Absolutely! You’re still my best mate.” Bodie decided not to admit that it had been Sophie’s idea especially when he saw the slight softening in Doyle’s face. Always had been the one to show his emotions had Doyle.

“In that case, mate, I would be honoured.” Doyle meant every word even as he doubted the wisdom of becoming involved in Bodie’s family life. He knew there was no way that Megan would let him renege on any godfatherly duties. She was very family oriented.

Bodie’s smile lit up his face. His relief at getting through the invitation was palpable.

“That’s great, Ray. Great. I’ll let you know the details as soon as we’ve got everything booked.”

“Details? What details?”

“For the Christening, of course. Sophie wants the whole shebang.”

“Shouldn’t you be choosing someone who is actually a regular churchgoer for the role then?”

“Nah. Doesn’t matter so much these days.”

“Okay then. I guess it will give Megan an excuse to buy a new outfit.”

And the partners, ex-lovers, grinned at each other as a tiny chink appeared in their barricades.


	11. Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven February 1987

“Ray Doyle.” Whilst answering the telephone, Doyle continued to shuffle through the contents of a folder, which he was spreading out across his desk. Yet another jigsaw of a case to piece together. 

“DI Rowan here. We met in a hangar out at Gatwick early one morning.”

“Yes, I remember. What can I do for you?”

“More what I can do for you,” the DI paused.

“Go on.” Doyle matched pieces of paper and tried to find further linkages. What he needed was one of those puzzle board things he’d seen Elizabeth Walsh use. Perhaps he’d requisition one for the office. His musings were brought back to the telephone call as DI Rowan continued.

“We’ve uncovered an actual terrorist link to that same bullion robbery and thought CI5 would be interested.”

“Terrorist? Irish?” CI5’s original involvement in the robbery case had been triggered by the possibility of an IRA connection.

“No, Arab. Picked up two suspects who’ve given us some leads on the bullion itself and one which is right up your alley.”

“Details?” Now Doyle was all attention, picking up a pen and beginning to scribble on a scrap of paper. He snapped out questions, noting the answers, telephone receiver tucked under his chin.

“And you’re sure the source of this information is reliable?”

Turning the paper over, he made one final notation as the call concluded. “Thanks very much, Rowan. We’ll pick up this Arab and see what pops out when we squeeze.”

“And you’ll keep us informed if anything comes to light regarding the bullion?”

“No problem. We’ll be in touch.”

Putting the receiver down, Doyle turned to the computer terminal and rapidly typed in the information he’d been given. Just as the machine started to churn out information, the office door opened and Bodie entered, carrying another pile of folders. How Cowley hadn’t gone under years earlier from the sheer weight of paper involved in running a government department neither of them knew, but they were learning rapidly that it had to be dealt with.

“These are the evaluation reports for active agents for last year.” Placing the folders somewhat precariously on the edge of his desk, Bodie collapsed into his chair. “We’ll have to go through them before we complete this year’s review.”

Rapidly scanning the printout, Doyle stood then he eyed the pile of folders with dislike. “Do we have to do them today?”

“Nah. As long as they’re with Cowley by the end of the month.”

“Good. I’ve got something better for us to do. Come on.”

***** 

Following Doyle out of the building was almost like old times. Where Doyle led, Bodie followed and, as had been usual, he didn’t have a clue as to why. Oh, he’d tried to get the information as they’d used the side exit, avoiding going past Cowley’s office and he tried again as they entered the underground car park.

Watching Doyle stride towards his car, Bodie stopped.

“Oi! Will you tell me where we’re going?”

Doyle paused as he was about to insert the key and looked over his shoulder.

“CID has given us a lead on a possible terrorist suspect.”

“And we’re investigating … why? Aren’t we supposed to tell other people to pick up suspects?”

Bodie started to walk towards Doyle, who now had the car door open and one leg inside. Twisting to lean on the car roof, he considered the questions.

“Well … Deputy Controller Doyle … why are we going?”

The expression on Doyle’s face could only be called bemused, then slowly tracking into guilt.

“I forgot,” he said slowly.

“What d’you mean, you forgot? Forgot what?” Bodie was now leaning against the car roof opposite Doyle.

“I forgot we weren’t straightforward agents any more. It never entered my head to assign someone else when I took the call.” He grinned sheepishly. “Perhaps we’d better go back and I’ll send whoever’s on standby.”

Bodie considered for a moment, then grinned. “Oh, to hell with it. We’ve been cooped up in that office for far too long. Let’s do it.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Let’s go.”

The next minute, the Capri was roaring up to the car park exit, the partners feeling like school kids bunking off.

***** 

The flat in Thornton Avenue was in a 1930s purpose-built two storey block backing onto the London Underground station of Turnham Green. Whilst officially in Chiswick, it didn’t have the cachet of being close to the High Street and with the trains rumbling passed every few minutes, it wasn’t the most desirable residence either. 

Pulling into a conveniently empty parking space about fifty yards down the road, Bodie and Doyle watched the building for a while, getting a feel for the area and trying to decide what the risks might be. Eventually, Doyle took the initiative and started to get out of the car.

“Hey, Doyle.”

Bodie’s comment got him to turn round, twisting uncomfortably as he stuck his head back in the car, right arm resting on the top of the car door.

“What?”

“Let’s just get in there and pull him out. Back to HQ for question time. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Well, that was too easy. Are you feeling alright?”

“I’m fine. But perhaps we shouldn’t try Cowley’s patience too much. It’ll be easier to explain if we have the guy in interrogation.”

“Cowley can’t complain. He was always out and about on one op or another.”

“Yeah, but what was sauce for the goose or, in this case, the Cow, is not necessarily sauce for …”

“Okay, okay, I get it.” Bodie checked for traffic and got out of the car. Together they made their way to the flat.

***** 

The man who answered the door bell smiled cheerily at them. He was much younger than they expected. About five feet five, mousy brown hair flopping over his left eye, slightly built and wearing a brightly coloured shirt over scruffy jeans.

“Hello there.” The grin widened as he took stock of the two men on his doorstep.

“Tariq Akbar?” Bodie enquired.

“He’s not at home right now.” The grin faded a little.

Presenting his ID, Bodie moved forward to enter the flat, asking politely “May we come in?” but making it very clear that “No” was not an option.

The grin disappeared altogether as he queried. “What’s he done?”

“Best if we talk inside.” Doyle joined his partner entering the flat. The young man backed up slightly, looking as if he might deny them entry, then obviously changed his mind as he turned and led the way into the lounge.

The room was small but beautifully presented and immaculately clean. A vacuum cleaner stood to one side, the lead plugged in and a box of cleaning materials sat on one armchair. This was quickly moved to the floor.

“Please sit down. Tell me what Tariq’s done.”

Bodie and Doyle glanced at each other then moved to sit, both selecting chairs that gave them the best coverage of the exits, door and windows, and the young man who’d let them in.

“And you are?” Doyle started with a question of his own.

“Oh, my name’s Jerry … Jerry Blake.”

“And do you live here, too, Mr Blake?”

“Yes, yes, I do. And call me Jerry please. Mr Blake is my father.”

“Fine then, Jerry. Do you know where Tariq Akbar is at the moment?”

“Well, no, actually I don’t. He hasn’t been home for several days.”

“Is that usual?” Bodie picked up the questioning.

Worried brown eyes turned his direction. “Yes. He often disappears for days at a time.”

“And do you know where he goes?” Back to Doyle.

“No. He never says. It’s best that I don’t ask questions.”

“And what is your relationship with Mr Akbar?” Bodie’s voice hardened as he pushed for answers.

“He and I are … well … that is to say …” Blake stuttered to a halt as he stared from one to the other, his bewilderment plain, his distress becoming more apparent.

Doyle leaned forward, adopting his ‘I’m your friend, I can help you’ approach in contrast to Bodie’s hard man.

“We’re not interested in your private life, Jerry, but we do have to find Tariq. Unfortunately he may be involved with some rather nasty people. We’d like to talk to you about Tariq but it might be better if you come back to our headquarters with us.”

Bewilderment and distress now turned to panic. “You’re arresting me! But I haven’t done anything.” Wide set eyes flickered from Doyle to Bodie to potential exits then back to Doyle.

“We’re not arresting you, Jerry. We just think you’d be safer with us. Tariq has some very nasty friends and we can protect you.”

“We’ll also need to search the flat, “ Bodie added. “Rather thoroughly.”

“But there’s nothing here. Tariq’s never brought anything home.”

Believing that young Jerry probably knew more than he was admitting to, Doyle’s approach became, if anything, even friendlier. “No problem then. But we do need to talk to you in a safe environment and our boss will want to know that the flat has been searched. He’s very particular is our boss about things being done in the right way.”

Appealing to Jerry’s sense of order seemed to work as he visibly relaxed.

“I see. Okay. Do you want me to come now?”

“That would be good,” said Bodie, getting to his feet and towering over the seated man.

“I’ll get my coat, shall I?” Fixating on the strong personality exuding from Bodie, Jerry was ready to obey any instruction. Rising from the sofa, he then stepped round Bodie and into the bedroom. Seconds later he was back, holding a light coloured jacket, a wallet and a bunch of keys.

“I’ll take those,” said Bodie, taking the keys. “Our search team need to be able to access the place. Much easier, less messy, with the keys. His smile was not meant to comfort.

“Come on then, Jerry, let’s go.” Doyle led the way out of the flat, closely followed by Jerry and Bodie.

***** 

“He was what!” Doyle’s exclamation echoed down the corridor as the door to the office had been left open.

“He was Wally Peterson’s bit of stuff. Before he took up with Akbar. Our little innocent Jerry’s been around a bit.” Bodie had just finished another session of question and answers.

“And what does he have to say about that?” demanded Doyle.

“Not a lot. He’s a veritable three wise monkeys. Lives in the midst of criminal activity and neither sees nor hears nor speaks of it.”

“No one’s that innocent.”

“How right you are. But proving that he knows something … ah … there’s the rub.”

“Have the boys come back from searching the flat?”

“Not a clue. I’ve been beavering away down in interrogation as you very well know.” Bodie slid behind his desk as Doyle picked up the telephone and dialled a four digit internal number.

“VIP Lounge,” answered a familiar voice.

“Anson. It’s Doyle. Has Murph returned from Chiswick yet?”

“Haven’t seen … oh … wait a minute. There’s an ants’ trail of boxes going past the door. Looks like they just got back. And brought lots of stuff with them.”

“Good. Thanks.”

Replacing the receiver, Doyle looked across at Bodie. “Looks like they might have found something.”

***** 

Several hours later, a dishevelled Murphy, complete with a smudge of dirt across his cheek, appeared in the office doorway.

“That flat was spotless. Where’d the dirt come from?” asked Bodie, flicking a finger towards the dirt smeared face of his colleague.

“There’s a cellar.”

“Of course there is,” said Bodie.

“Did you find anything?” Doyle enquired eagerly.

“Lots. Enough to put Mr Akbar away for a very long time. Once we find him. But I think this might be of more interest to you two.” And Murph threw a photographic envelope onto the desk. The packet opened and a number of snaps fell out.

Doyle quickly gathered them up and flicked through them. Once he’d glanced through, he passed them to Bodie.

“They’re all of that harbour … the one Shona Pierce painted.”

Bodie barely looked at them before replacing them in the wallet. “So what? It’s not as if someone was caught by the lens in a criminal act. They’re just photographs of a picturesque harbour.”

“But why would Akbar have them?” queried Doyle.

Bodie shrugged, pretty much indifferent to the whole McAllister murder case. He’d told Doyle, time and again, that it was a waste of time and effort pursuing the few leads that popped up every so often. But it remained on Doyle’s obsession list.

“I’ll just see what young Jerry makes of them then.” Doyle picked up the photographs and left the office.

Murphy turned to look at Bodie, who raised an eyebrow before asking. “How did you know Doyle would be interested in those particular photos?”

“Cos he’s shown the photograph of the painting to everybody who has so much as sniffed at the McAllister case. I recognised the view as soon as I saw it. They might be useful.”

“Doubt it. Nothing useful has turned up on that case since Day One.”

Taking Bodie’s sarcasm in his stride, Murphy started to leave the office but added, “Remember the Cow’s words of wisdom – Nothing is nothing. It might all lead to something.” This last in an atrocious Scottish accent. He ducked out of the office quickly as a pad of paper flew through the air, missing his head by a mere half inch.

“Missed me!” floated back to Bodie as he got up to retrieve the pad.

***** 

Jerry Blake glanced up from contemplating his fingernails as the door opened. In walked the curly haired man who’d come to the flat earlier in the day. Jerry smiled at him as he’d been nice. Much nicer than the dark haired ogre who’d been asking him questions for what seemed like hours. Doyle - Jerry remembered his name was Doyle - nodded to the stern-faced man who’d been watching him. Almost as if they thought he was dangerous. As if.

Jerry was now alone with Doyle. He felt much more at ease, wriggling on the hard chair to find a more comfortable position. Doyle sat opposite him, smiling in that same friendly fashion.

“Hi, Jerry. Are they treating you okay?”

“Not bad. That dark haired man … Bodie is it? … he brought me a tea and some biscuits. But he had lots of questions. And I really don’t know anything.” His eyes widened, pleading with Doyle to believe him.

“Actually I don’t want to talk about Tariq Akbar. I’m more interested in finding out what you know about these.” And he spread the photographs out across the table.

“Oooh! I haven’t seen these in ages. Where did you find them?”

“In the cellar, I believe.”

Jerry sat back in the chair. “In the cellar! What on earth would they be doing in the cellar?”

“I don’t know, Jerry, that’s why I’m asking you.” Doyle’s patient tone slipped just slightly.

“Well, the cellar was Tariq’s area. His personal space. He made it very clear that I wasn’t to go down there.” Jerry rubbed absently at his jaw. “In fact, he was most insistent. I had to use concealer to hide the bruise.” His whole attitude pleaded ‘Pity me.’

“So tell me about the photographs.” Doyle directed him back to his area of interest.

Jerry fingered them gently, pausing at one in particular before moving through them all. He didn’t notice Doyle’s interest at his hesitation and he moved on.

“Before I met Tariq, I lived with this art dealer, name of Wally Peterson. Though he preferred to be called Walter. Made him think he was a cut above the rest of the world. He was murdered. Last year. It was horrible.”

Tears filled the big brown eyes as Jerry recalled how horrendous the situation had been. “The police kept asking me questions about Wally and what he did for a living and who could have done such a thing.”

Doyle murmured sympathetically.

“I mean … I couldn’t answer their questions. Wally was a dealer, mainly paintings, sometimes a bit of sculpture. I didn’t know anything about his murder or any of the things they were asking about.”

“Of course you didn’t. So what about the photographs?” If there was now a slight edge to Doyle’s voice, Jerry didn’t notice. He was lost in his memories.

“Wally may have been a crook but I didn’t know anything about that. We met when I was invited to a posh party at some MP’s place in Chelsea. Took to each other right away. He invited me to stay with him. I’d only been in London a couple of months so it was real nice of him. We were together five years. Five lovely years …”

Again his eyes filled with tears, one or two slowly making their way down his cheeks. He sniffed.

“Thanks.” He snuffled as he accepted a large, plain white hankie from Doyle. It had an embroidered ‘B’ on one corner. He dabbed delicately as his eyes then blew his nose noisily. He made to pass the handkerchief back but Doyle waved it away. 

“Keep it.”

“Ta. I’m sorry about coming over all emotional but me and Wally were really close.”

“You were telling me about the photographs.”

“Oh, yeah. Well … Wally had known this painter for years. It was her house where I met him. She was married to this MP.”

“McAllister?”

“That’s him. Wally had sold some of her paintings when she was first starting out and they’d remained friends … well, close acquaintances really, I suppose, as they didn’t see each other very often. I got the feeling her old man, McAllister, didn’t really approve of Wally.”

“Go on,” Doyle encouraged.

“When she died … you know she was murdered too … with her whole family … It would be about a year later … yeah … it was ’83 … Wally was asked to evaluate and sell her own collection of art. There was only one of her own paintings in the collection. The big harbour landscape.”

“I know the one.”

“You do? It was her favourite and she’d refused to sell it I don’t know how many times so Wally said. He put it up for auction that summer.”

Jerry paused and took a sip from the now cold cup of tea on the table in front of him.

“I loved it too. I begged Wally to keep it. It would have looked smashing on the wall of our bedroom but he said he couldn’t. There was a lot of interest in it and he couldn’t afford to buy it. But these photos had come with the paintings. Apparently Shona always took snaps of the things she was painting so that she could finish the work in her studio if she was unable to finish on site. And she kept them. Wally said they had no commercial value so he had copied made and gave them to me.”

“So you’ve had them since ’83?”

“Kept them in a jewellery box by my bed. Tariq didn’t like me keeping souvenirs from Wally. Maybe that’s why he had them in the cellar.”

“And that’s all you know about the photos?”

“That’s it. I haven’t seen them in such a long while. Can I keep them?”

“Not at the moment. They’re evidence. But they can be returned to you when it’s all over.”

Doyle gathered the photos together again, making sure that the one Jerry had lingered over was on top, and replaced them in the paper wallet.

“Do you know what happened to the negatives?”

“I’ve no idea. I only ever had the photos.”

“Well, thanks, Jerry. You’ve been a big help.”

“What happens now?”

“You’ll be here for a little longer. But I’ll get one of the lads to bring you something to eat.”

“But I’ve got nothing else to tell you.”

“Just make yourself comfortable, Jerry. We’ll take you home as soon as it’s safe to do so.”

***** 

“It was this one.” Doyle put the photograph on the desk in front of Bodie. “He lingered over this one.”

“And what’s so special about it?”

“I have no idea. It’s pretty much identical to the others. I’ll get the lab boys to blow it up. Maybe we’ll be able to see something then.”

“Yeah. Maybe.” Bodie didn’t sound convinced.

***** 

“It’s Dominic Summerhayes.” Doyle was positive he’d identified the Dorset gallery owner pictured climbing down off the motor yacht. The man’s face was turned towards the quayside as the man still on the yacht pointed something out to him.

“Could be.” Bodie was still sceptical. Even after the photograph had been enlarged, the detail wasn’t too clear. There was a man climbing down off the boat but even a magnifying glass couldn’t clarify his features for definite identification.

“I’m sure it’s him.” Even Doyle was now sounding less confident.

“And if it is him … what does it mean? So Shona Pierce photographed him on a boat when she was taking snaps of a harbour. There are no close-ups so she wasn’t interested in him. It’s just a coincidence.”

“There’s no such thing as coincidence.” Doyle echoed their boss. “Maybe I can track down what he was doing there.”

“But we don’t even know when the picture was taken.”

“We know roughly when Shona painted the harbour scene. The date she signed it is on the insurance paperwork. It gives us a starting point.”

“Yeah, but what’s the point, Doyle? This isn’t leading us anywhere. So Summerhayes’s name crops up now and again. There’s no evidence that he’s connected in any way to any crime.”

“There’s no such thing as coincidence.” Now Doyle echoed himself. “Still I guess we do have other things to do.”

“Aye, that you do,” came a familiar voice from the doorway. “The Minister wants to see us.”


	12. Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve March 1987 to November 1990

“Come to bed, Ray.” Megan stood in the doorway to the lounge, watching her husband, who was sorting photographs at the dining table. Her gaze was fond as she well knew once Ray was engrossed; he could be there all night.

“I’ll be there in a few. Just wanted to finish this.” He glanced over at his wife to see her smiling at him. “Honest. Be there is a bit.”

“Okay. Mind you are. You need to get some sleep before the conference tomorrow.”

“I will, I will. Promise.”

“Alright, love. Good night.” And she disappeared off down the short corridor to their bedroom.

Though he was no longer on the active agents’ list, Ray and Megan had opted to remain in a secure flat within easy reach of the headquarter’s building. Megan had accepted the need for security but insisted that they didn’t move too often. As a qualified social worker, she worked long hours in the Children’s Services department of their London borough. It often felt like they were ships passing in the night but, somehow, they were managing to make their work and private lives gel.

Bodie, on the other hand, had moved his new family to a four-bedroom, detached property in the leafy suburb of Sutton. A generous rent allowance came as part of his new salary banding which, when combined with savings, allowed the couple to move out of Central London. Whilst security would always be a concern for anyone in his line of work, the house and street were a relatively anonymous retreat from the threats surrounding him on a daily basis. To the surprise of almost everyone, domesticity appeared to suit Bodie and he settled well into parenthood.

The photographs Ray was sorting through were a pocket history of the last few months. The last batch had, in the main, been taken by Sophie and these were copies. 

Once he’d accepted the invitation to be godfather to the twins, he and Megan had been embraced by Sophie Bodie as a natural extension of the family. They found themselves invited, and accepting, invitations to family outings, brunches, lunches, dinners and even afternoon tea. Megan and Sophie bonded over tales of how dreadful it was to be married to CI5.

Looking at the photographs of the recent Christening, Ray remembered the exquisite torture of being so close to Bodie once more on a social level. He’d coped with working together. He’d survived Bodie’s marriage. Now he was back in the fold socially and lots of memories, memories he’d buried long ago, were pushing to be let back into the light of day.

A group shot of the four of them with the twins, taken by a friend of Sophie’s, showed both wives dressed to the nines, both husbands in smart, dark suits, all smiling for the camera. He’d stood next to Bodie, shoulder to shoulder, just touching, and the warmth, the solidity, had been so familiar, he’d been hard-pressed not to lean into it. Instead, he’d put his arm round Megan.

There were other shots of them throughout the day but it was the last one in the pile that brought home the truth of their situation.

He and Megan had been thinking about leaving. They’d helped the couple tidy up and Bodie had taken the twins to bed. Ray had left Sophie and Megan enjoying a last cup of tea in the kitchen as he went in search of Bodie to let him know they were about to go.

All was quiet upstairs as he crept along the corridor to the nursery. The door was ajar so he pushed it open very carefully. The sight that greeted him stopped him in his tracks. Bodie had obviously changed both babies into matching baby grows before giving them their final bottles of the day.

It had been a long and exhausting day for both parents but it had obviously become too much for Bodie as he’d sat in the armchair, conveniently placed for Sophie to nurse either of the boys. He’d take off his suit jacket and tie, undone the top buttons of his shirt and then relaxed whilst the boys fed. Now he had one baby over his shoulder and the other face down across his knee. All three were fast asleep.

Doyle watched them for a minute or two. It really brought home to him just how far apart he and Bodie now were. The barricade was well and truly reinforced, not only with a wife but now offspring. Doyle’s jaw clenched in anguish. He’d never found out why Bodie had dumped him. Now he never would.

As he went to leave the room and the sleepers undisturbed, he noticed the camera, half-hidden under Bodie’s jacket. Realising this was too good an opportunity to miss; he reached across and grabbed the camera. Checking the film counter, there were two shots left on the roll. Carefully he framed the shot, checked the flash was on as the curtains, though open, were only letting in the dim evening sun.

He clicked once, wound the film, clicked again. Bodie’s eyes shot open at the flash. He immediately saw Doyle and knew what he’d done but could do nothing to retaliate with the babies still sleeping.

Doyle grinned then fled the room, taking the camera with him. He’d ask Sophie for copies. Perhaps retaining that photo in actuality as well as in his mind’s eye would help him to put his love for Bodie back where it belonged – in the past.

***** 

CI5 continued to grow and flourish under the leadership of George Cowley and his Deputy Controllers. It seemed as if Cowley would go on forever, his energy boundless, but those who knew him well saw the toll that time and an impossible job took on an aging man. However, everyone expected him to stay in charge as long as there were threats to be met, knowing that his indomitable spirit imbued the organisation with strength and will.

The aims of CI5 remained the same despite the changing world scene. In 1985, Gorbachev had become Secretary General of the Soviet Communist party and the road to détente began. Suddenly it appeared that the Eastern bloc countries were no longer ‘the enemy’ but CI5 continued to work alongside its international counterparts to ensure that détente was a reality as well as a dream.

Within the UK, CI5 continued to work alongside Special Branch and MI5 to combat terrorism, not only from the Irish separatists but also from the increasing threat from Islamic extremists. Britain maintained its stance of no negotiation with terrorists so the security services had their work cut out for them to resolve or prevent situations.

Then there was the criminal fraternity, using more sophisticated methods to commit crimes and CI5 continued to be called in to assist police forces across the country as there was still no national CID.

The Prime Minister’s Security Council met on a semi-regular basis at different venues around Whitehall. This particular meeting had been convened because of a perceived threat to the nuclear submarine fleet based at HMNB Clyde about twenty five miles north of Glasgow on the Gare Loch and Loch Long. Every security organisation potentially involved sent a representative or two to the meeting and part of the CI5 Deputy Controllers’ responsibilities was to participate in such liaison meetings alongside George Cowley.

Chaired, on this occasion, by the Home Secretary, the meeting had dragged on through the whole morning, into the early afternoon. As it was only scheduled for a two hour slot, no lunch had been arranged and Bodie had swallowed several cups of fairly disgusting coffee to try to assuage the hunger pangs.

After gathering their papers together, he left the meeting room with Cowley and they made their way to the exit. Delayed several times by various Whitehall warriors wanting a word with the head of CI5 about this or that, the main entrance hall was empty by the time they reached it.

Bodie had already radioed McCabe, who was acting as chauffeur and bodyguard for Cowley this week, so that the car would be outside.

Approaching the large revolving door, Bodie could hear chanting and shouting from outside. Putting his arm out, he stopped Cowley’s forward motion.

“Better wait here a sec, sir. I’ll find out what all that fuss is outside.” Backtracking slightly, he headed for the reception desk. The commissionaire was only too ready to tell him what was happening.

“It’s them anti-war demonstrators. Want us to pull our troops out of Northern Ireland. Somehow they got the idea that the Home Secretary was going to be in here today. Got a petition or something to give him. I told them to send it along to the Home Office but they’re waiting to hand it over in person. Got the press and the telly with them too.”

“Been any trouble?” Bodie asked.

“Nah. Just noisy. Mind you, everyone else has gone out by the side exit.”

Bodie walked back to Cowley’s side. There was no need to say anything as his boss had heard every word.

Through the glass inserts in the doors, they could see the demonstrators ganged up on the pavement, being held back from the entrance by a couple of bored-looking policemen. A red Rover pulled up to the kerb and McCabe got out, coming round to stand by the passenger doors. The crowd ignored him but his head moved this way and that as he assessed the threat level from the thirty or so demonstrators.

“Come on,” said Cowley. “They’re not interested in you and me.”

Going through the doors first, Bodie made sure that the way to the car was safe. The noise level increased as the protestors realised they had a live audience but there was no apparent threat. Banners and arms were waved in time with the chanting but that was all.

Moving down the short flight of steps, Bodie nodded to McCabe, who started to open the passenger door. One of the policemen politely cleared a passage across the pavement by simply asking people to move. The other turned to look at Cowley, taking his attention away from the demonstrators for a few seconds.

But that was all it took.

A small dark-haired woman, in a bottle green overcoat, pushed aside the man in front of her and ran up the steps, launching herself at Cowley.

“You killed my son,” she screamed.

Bodie turned, about to pull his gun from its holster, as he saw a flash of something. Then Cowley was on the ground. The woman fell with him, still screaming hysterically, her hand raised to strike a further blow when Bodie grabbed her, twisting her wrist slightly and the knife fell to the ground. She kicked out at him, her other hand clawing for his face but he lifted her away from his boss and pushed her into the arms of a police officer.

“Arrest her,” he snarled.

Dropping to his knees, his eyes met those of Cowley. “Are you hit, sir?”

“Aye. She caught my leg.” There was pain threaded through Cowley’s voice but he was coherent, only gasping as Bodie found the wound and clasped both hands over it, trying to prevent more blood spurting.

Then McCabe was there too.

“Help me get him to the car. It’ll be quicker than waiting for an ambulance.”

Between them they half carried, half dragged the now semi-conscious Cowley into the back seat of the car. Keeping his hands, as much as possible, on the leg wound, Bodie climbed in with Cowley, letting McCabe take driving duty.

It seem an interminable journey to the nearest hospital with Accident and Emergency facilities but was actually less than ten minutes. Blue light, siren and a scarily determined driver ensured their swift passage.

As McCabe screeched the car to a halt in an ambulance bay, Bodie was already opening the car door, shouting for a trolley, for assistance. In less than a minute, Cowley was being wheeled down a corridor. Bodie stayed by his side.

Just as a nurse stopped Bodie from going any further, his hand was grasped and a husky voice said, “Aye, you’re a good lad, Bodie. Tell Doyle …” The voice faded away and the trolley disappeared into the emergency theatre.

Back in A&E reception, McCabe was looking lost. He’d re-parked the car and returned to find out what was happening.

“Any news?”

“None. They’ve taken him straight into theatre. He was unconscious.”

“I’ll get onto HQ. You might want to clean up a bit.”

Bodie glanced down. His hands were covered in blood as were his shirt and trousers. 

“Yeah … I’ll just let reception know where I am. Er … Mac … get Doyle down here.”

“Fast as I can.”

***** 

Doyle joined him in the waiting room. There was no news. Patients came and went. Everything from an in-growing toenail to major heart attack being handled with the same professionalism and care.

The plastic chairs seemed to mould themselves to their backsides. The plastic cups tainted every mouthful of tea … or was it coffee. The plastic clock ticked away the minutes that turned into hours.

They didn’t talk much. There didn’t seem to be anything to say. But they sat, side by side, waiting.

***** 

George Cowley died without ever regaining consciousness. The knife, though aimed for his heart, had missed its target as he fell but it had ripped a jagged hole in his femoral artery and, by the time he got to theatre, he had lost too much blood, his body going into shock, too badly wounded for the surgery team to be able to save him.

Ironically, the woman who’d attacked him believed him to be the Home Secretary. She blamed him for the death of her soldier son in Northern Ireland. Ironic because Cowley had once played the part of the Home Secretary to foil the Turkel brothers. Ironic because the man she’d mistakenly killed had been working for years to bring about peace in the six counties.

The man, who’d fought against those trying to reduce the UK through the bomb tactics of the IRA, the illegal activities of crime and drug syndicates, the skulduggery of Russia and Eastern bloc spymasters, the backstabbing and political in-fighting of the security services and politicians and the general mayhem that resulted when human beings believed they could achieve their aims through violence, was felled by an hysterical, grieving mother.

***** 

It was a cold, grey and damp November morning when they laid George Cowley to rest. He’d specifically requested in a letter to his solicitor to be opened only on the occasion of his death that he be buried with his family in this windswept churchyard in the Highlands. He’d also requested a small private service and burial and his wishes had been honoured though there was, nonetheless, a small scattering of the great and the good in the small stone kirk.

Bodie and Doyle had travelled overnight on the King’s Cross to Glasgow sleeper though they hadn’t slept much. Narrow bunks, noisy train crossing points and shaking as it sped through the night did not make a recipe for a good night’s sleep. Even so, they’d slept in worse conditions over the years. But the sleep just wouldn’t come. Nor had it since the surgeon had broken the news of Cowley’s death.

Somehow they’d stayed on their feet, rallying the department to near-normal day to day operations, making the arrangements to convey the body north and for the funeral itself. 

Cowley had no close family left save for an elderly aunt who was too frail to attend in person but Bodie and Doyle had taken the time to go to see her to convey their own and the department’s condolences. Although nearly ninety, she had been alert and spry, amusing them with stories about Cowley as a young boy, whilst plying them with tea and cake.

Now they stood, side by side, sombre and grief-stricken as the minister came to the end of the graveside formalities.

“We now commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust: in the sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life …”

Slowly each person took a handful of dry earth from the wooden box offered, since the actual earth around the grave was sodden, and threw it onto the coffin. The service now over, individuals started to drift away. It was too chilly a day to linger but Bodie and Doyle stayed, staring down at the plain wooden casket. Cowley had been such a powerful influence and presence in both their lives that it was almost impossible to believe he had gone.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Thirteen December 1990 to April 1991

“You can’t do that!”

“I think you’ll find that I can, Mr Doyle.” The grey-haired, grey suited man was banal in his delivery of the bad news.

“But …”

Before Doyle could further endanger their somewhat shaky relationship with the new Minister, Bodie interrupted.

“I can see your reasoning, Minister, but CI5 has been performing exceptionally well even without Mr Cowley at the helm. Have we not made a case for keeping the department?”

“You have both been most eloquent.” Even his sarcasm was as smooth as the silk tie he wore with such aplomb. “Unfortunately, the decision has been taken.”

“And there’s no appeal?” Doyle had regained a slightly calmer demeanour.

“I’m afraid not. There might be a little flexibility on timescales. After all, it will be necessary to hand over all live operations and there are the physical problems associated with relocating files, etc. But, essentially, you have three months in which to close down CI5 as an active government department.”

***** 

“I just don’t bloody well believe it!” Doyle’s rant had started as soon as they got back to the car to return to CI5 headquarters. Bodie couldn’t be bothered to respond even if he could have got a word in edgewise. They’d been handed a fait accompli and there was nothing to be done about it except to play out the hand they’d been dealt. 

Getting out of the car in the CI5 car park, Doyle stopped his tirade. Until they’d had an opportunity to discuss this nightmare, he didn’t want the gossip mill to get hold of it because he’d been indiscreet.

Of course, the whole building knew within five minutes of their return that something had gone badly wrong because both men appeared doom-laden and quiet as they made their way to their office.

***** 

An hour later, they’d reached no sane conclusion after going through the decision handed to them by the Minister. They knew that Cowley and CI5 had never been popular in political circles but they’d done the job asked of them. However, it seemed that the political will to back CI5 was now missing. Margaret Thatcher had always been one of the organisation’s staunchest supporters but her successor, John Major, was more easily influenced by those in power for whom CI5 had always been a nuisance. The death of George Cowley seemed to have knocked his confidence in their ability to continue do the job.

The usual budgetary pressures, coupled with a presumed lack of leadership, had attracted the political hyenas and the pack had brought about a decision which appeared to be irrevocable.

Bodie was sitting behind his desk and he watched Doyle prowl the office, trying out scenarios, throwing out questions, never waiting for an answer, as he tried to come to terms with this latest development.

“They didn’t even wait till George Cowley was cold in his grave. This must have been on the cards for a while. D’you think he knew?”

Finally, Doyle paused, waiting for Bodie to answer.

“He knew there were always threats to the organisation but I don’t think he knew about this specifically. He’d have said something to us.”

“Sure about that, are you?”

“Yeah. He was a devious old sod but he wouldn’t have kept this from us. He always gave us the information necessary to do the job.”

“Or not.”

Bodie raised an eyebrow in query and Doyle continued. “Or gave us just enough to be able to work it out ourselves.”

“True. Very true. But I think this is something he would have shared with us.”

“Yeah. I think you’re right.” The anger which had sustained Doyle all the way from Whitehall and through this conversation with Bodie suddenly drained away, leaving him feeling flat and helpless. “So, what do we do now?”

Despite their differences over the years, there was no doubt in Doyle’s mind that they would go on together.

“We do what Cowley would have wanted us to do. We follow orders and make sure everything is done properly.”

“What’s in the file?” Doyle indicated the black box file the Minister had handed to them as he’d announced the closure of CI5. Neither of them had thought to open it till now.

“I guess we’d better find out. Then we’re going to have to tell the team.”

Bodie opened the file, pulling out a series of neatly typed documents and envelopes. Spreading them out on the desk in front of him, he picked up one envelope and held it out.

“This is for you.”

Doyle took the large envelope with the same care he’d have handled a poisonous snake.

“Do you have one too?”

“Yup. Here’s mine.”

Both of them stared at their envelopes.

“What’s the rest of it?” Doyle asked, breaking the spell woven by the envelopes and directing their attention to the rest of the papers.

“There seem to be envelopes for all the staff. And these …” He pushed several documents towards Doyle. “… seem to be inventories of equipment and stuff.”

“Stuff?”

“You know. Stuff. All those forms we spent weeks completing for Cowley for the budget review. Now they come back to haunt us as I’ve no doubt we’ll have to account for every single paperclip.”

“So where do we start?”

“I’ve no clue. Never had to do anything like this before.”

They stared at the paperwork now littering the desk as if it would give them the answer and both jumped when the telephone rang.

“Bodie.”

Though Doyle could only hear one side of the conversation, it was soon clear who had called and why.

“Hi Janice.” CI5’s Personnel Officer, though assigned through the Home Office.

“The Minister called you … I see … well, good. Come straight over. I think we need your help.”

As Bodie replaced the receiver, his comment to Doyle reflected his relief. 

“I think we just got rescued.”

***** 

“So that’s the situation as it was explained to us. We take on no more new cases; the current workload is either concluded or passed on to Special Branch or MI5. You’ll all be handed an envelope before you leave the office today, which will set out your personal situation. As government employees, we are all entitled to apply for any current vacancy and, because of the shutdown, we will get a certain amount of priority. Unfortunately, I can’t guarantee that you will be offered another government role but you will all get the best possible recommendation from me and Bodie.”

The room was so quiet; a dropped pin would have rattled the windows. On the advice of Personnel, they’d gathered as many CI5 staff as were available, utilising a Whitehall conference theatre to accommodate as many people as possible. Those on assignment, or sick leave, or holiday would be called to individual meetings as soon as possible and told exactly the same thing. In order to make the process as fair as possible, all staff at the group meeting were asked not to tell those who were not there. Their discretion was accepted as the norm but, appreciating that they would need to talk, no barrier was put on them discussing it with each other.

Doyle had taken the lead in explaining the closure, on how it affected each member of staff and on the process going forward. Now, Bodie stepped forward.

“I just wanted to add my personal thanks to each and every one of you. There was no failure on the part of CI5. You’ve all done the very best you could and Doyle and I have really appreciated your support over the past two months. It has been a difficult time for all of us and you have each shown the calibre expected of staff appointed by George Cowley. We’ll be relying on you all again as we close up shop but you’ll get as much time as you need to find another job, either within a government department or outside. May I wish you all the very best for the future. It has been an honour to work with each and every one of you. That’s all for now. If you have any questions, please ask.”

Dismissed, the stunned silence gave way to a rising hum of voices but no one approached the Deputy Controllers, who gathered their papers and started to leave the small raised dais that served as a stage.

“Ever feel like a leper?” asked Doyle quietly.

“Not quite on this scale. Let’s leave them to it. They know where to find us and once they’ve pulled it all to pieces, there’ll be questions.”

“Probably the ones to which we haven’t got the answers.”

“Probably.”

Together they made their way out, the crowd parting like the Red Sea. No one stopped them.

***** 

Back in HQ, all was quiet. Only the bare minimum of staff had been left to secure the building and to answer any telephone calls. Those staff would also be seen on an individual basis over the next few days. It wasn’t the ideal way to deal with the notification but the organisation still had to function so there was no way to get every member of staff in the same room at the same time. Even those agents currently undercover would be discreetly contacted and, at the optimum time, brought home to be told the news.

Upon entering their office, their eyes were once more drawn to the two envelopes, still unopened, sitting side by side on the desk where they’d left them before their briefing with Janice Hurst, the Personnel Officer assisting them.

Both men removed their suit jackets and loosened their ties. Bodie crossed the office and picked up the two buff envelopes.

“I suppose we have to open these sometime.” He handed one across to Doyle.

“Suppose so. Does it seem daft to you that I feel that opening this will make it all so much more real?” Doyle’s expression was sheepish as if he expected Bodie to laugh at him.

Instead he got a wry smile of agreement. “I feel the same way. But we can’t put it off any longer. Everyone else will have theirs by the end of the day. And we need to know what they say.”

“Yup. That’s true.”

They both continued to stare at the envelope they each held. Suddenly Bodie moved. He reached out and grabbed the paperknife from its home in the pen-holder, swiping it swiftly across the seal and opening the packet. Before taking out the contents, he passed the knife to Doyle.

“Okay. Here goes.” And Doyle also opened his.

Taking out the documents, it took them several minutes to skim read everything and several more to go back and check what they thought they’d read. Without speaking, they swapped papers.

“Bloody hell!” Doyle was the first to speak. “I never expected that.”

“Neither did I.”

“We must have impressed someone.”

“Or the Cow gave us a cracking recommendation on the yearly evaluations.” Bodie dropped the papers onto the desk as he sat down. “Back to your roots then?”

“Mebbe. What about you? How do you feel about MI5?”

Bodie’s expression was rueful. “Better than the mercs or MI6. Are you going to accept?”

“I don’t know. I’ll talk it over with Megan tonight. You know, no matter how many times we talked about getting out of CI5, somehow I never really believed that we would do it.”

“Well, we’re not doing it. Being booted out, aren’t we?”

“Yeah, but this is a cushy net to fall into. If I accept it.”

“Yeah. If we accept.

***** 

Closing the office door, Doyle prepared to leave the CI5 building for the last time. It had taken four and a half months of hard work by all concerned to close cases or hand them over. Computer files had to be transferred. Paper files had to be sorted, packed away for archive or loaded onto lorries and transported to new homes in Special Branch, MI5 or the Met.

The people too had moved on. Bodie couldn’t be here on the last day as his new unit at MI5 was deeply involved in intelligence gathering for an anti-terrorist operation. Murphy had returned to the army, taking a captaincy in the Household Cavalry and was busy preparing for the Queen’s Birthday parade. Anson and Stewart had also moved to MI5, whilst Macklin, McCabe and Lucas were busy setting up the new Joint Services Training Centre. Jax had accepted and already started in a position at the Met so only Betty had been available to help oversee the final closedown. But she too was joining the Met’s new Anti-Terrorist Unit, working as secretary to Chief Superintendent Raymond Doyle.

“Well, that’s it, Ray. All gone.” Betty stepped out from her old office and joined him in the corridor. “What’s that?” She indicated a large box file under his arm. “I thought all the files had been packed up.”

“It’s my files on the McAllister case. Found it in the bottom of my desk. I’d forgotten about it in the madness of the last few months.”

“Still think you’re going to solve it?”

“You never know, Betty. You just never know. Come on, let’s get out of here. Fred will be wanting to lock up.”

Turning, they walked down the corridor to the lift.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fourteen May to August 1991

Sunshine poured through the office window, dappling the papers scattered across the desk. The heavy net curtains had been pulled back to allow the light in. Ray hated the Civil Service obsession with obscuring windows whilst understanding the security aspect. But today he’d decided that any assassin was welcome to try for a shot through the tenth floor window. They’d have to be a bloody good shot though as his window wasn’t overlooked in any direction unless you counted a couple of high rises half a mile or so away.

He should have been studying the papers on the gun-running case he’d inherited, bringing himself up to speed on the history as well as the latest developments. Instead he was staring at the cloud formations visible through the plate glass, his mind wandering.

Some days it was hard to believe that he didn’t work alongside Bodie anymore. He’d find himself turning to tell the big lug something and he wasn’t there. Oh, they would still see each other. There were liaison meetings between the various security organisations at which they would both be present. There were social occasions, seeing Bodie, Sophie and the twins, a family unit, tight and secure. There’d already been one joint operation where they’d shared the mobile command centre whilst their teams had cleared out an IRA cell.

When Bodie had ended their relationship, Doyle hadn’t been sure that they could continue to work together. However, he couldn’t envisage leaving CI5 and doing something else so, somehow, they’d made the professional partnership work. They’d even managed to pull the threads of a friendship back together but it had never been the same. The magic was gone. And now they didn’t even work for the same organisation.

A knock at the door brought Doyle’s attention back into the office. Jax popped his head round the door.

“Slocombe’s back, guv.”

“Did he get anything? And don’t call me guv.”

Jax grinned. He’d quickly re-adopted the Met’s way of addressing senior officers on a close-knit team and did it deliberately as he knew Doyle preferred to be called by name. 

“Seems the lead panned out. Dorset CID had a file on the ‘Tipsy Wench’ all right but not in connection with gun-running. It was a murder case.”

“Where’s Slocombe now?”

“Getting a cuppa. Seems they don’t know how to make it in Dorset.”

“I guess he’s never been out of London before.”

“I wouldn’t know about that but he practically kissed the ground when he got out of the car.”

Doyle laughed. “Okay. Send him in. Might as well get his report whilst it’s still fresh in his mind.

“I’ll get him.” And Jax disappeared.

***** 

“That’s it, guv.” Slocombe was finishing his report, so delighted to be back in The Smoke that he didn’t notice Doyle’s flinch at the use of the nickname. “The ‘Tipsy Wench’ was moored in West Bay. Been there about a week. The owner was known to run the occasional illegal cargo from the Continent but he played golf with the Chief Constable and was considered very small fry. The locals kept an eye on him but didn’t pull him in.”

“Why the connection to our case if he wasn’t running guns?” asked Doyle.

“There doesn’t seem to be one. Their case was flagged when a match came up.”

“What match?”

Jax picked up the tale. “To the landscape painting by Shona Pierce.”

“Really.” Doyle’s interest was piqued. The McAllister case had been dormant for so long he’d almost forgotten he’d added the photograph of the painting to the query files. And now a connection had appeared.

“It seems that Ms Pierce’s painting was done at the time the ‘Tipsy Wench’ was in the harbour. In fact, the boat features quite prominently in the painting.”

“And the murder?”

“The owner of the ‘Tipsy Wench’ was found on board when the Harbour Master realised the boat should have left and he went out to query why it was still anchored. As it was in the middle of the harbour, no one had noticed anything untoward. He found the body.”

“Wait a minute,” said Doyle, reaching into his desk drawer and removing a box file. On opening it, he quickly flipped through and pulled out a photograph. “I thought so. Look.” He pointed to the figure standing on the boat in the middle of the enlarged photograph. “This is Summerhayes. I’m sure of it. And the boat he’s standing on …”

“Is the ‘Tipsy Wench’,” concluded Jax.

“But, guv,” stumbled Slocombe. “That’s not clear at all. The enlargement is blurred. How can you be sure?”

Doyle glared up at him. “Because I am. That’s why. However, you’re almost right, Slocombe. This isn’t proof. No court would convict Summerhayes of anything based on my gut and a blurry photograph. But now that we have him linked, however slightly, to both a murder and to gun-running, we’ll be keeping an eye on Mr Summerhayes. Yes, a very close eye indeed.”

***** 

The bullet whistled by his head, taking a few curly hairs with it, before impacting the brick wall that formed the rear of their defensive position. A large hand pushed his head down and an angry voice hissed in his ear.

“Keep your bloody head down, Doyle. Are you trying to get it blown off?”

Shrugging Bodie’s hand away, he returned to his crouch.

“Was just checking.”

“What? To see if they know where we are? I think it’s obvious that they do.”

The ex-partners grinned at each other, the adrenalin pumping through their bodies as they both relished the chance of action once again.

Information received through an old snitch of Bodie’s had brought them to this rundown part of East London. Strictly speaking, Bodie should have handed the whole operation to the Met but it was too good an opportunity to get out of the office. Bodie hated the office-bound nature of his new job as Section Chief to Section D, Counter Terrorism, and was working hard to change the remit of his team. This was a chance to show what they could achieve but he played the political game as and when necessary and by calling Doyle’s team in specifically, he was re-living old times.

Glancing across at Doyle, he could see the excitement lighting up the green eyes. The two of them had taken cover behind an abandoned, rust heap of a car, which conveniently gave them an excellent view of the front of the house currently occupied, so the snitch said, by two of the team who’d robbed an airport warehouse of a fortune in bullion and diamonds.

Strictly speaking, the bullion case was still in the remit of CID but Doyle had pulled in a few favours and now DI Rowan’s team were moving in at the rear of the property, whilst I5 and Met Anti-Terrorist Unit were covering the front. Unfortunately, someone had slipped up and the occupiers of the house knew they were on the verge of being apprehended. Rather than surrender to the nice policemen, they’d chosen to make a fight of it, pinning down their opposition with automatic weapons’ fire. 

This whole situation had finally clarified for Bodie that he couldn’t sit behind a desk for the rest of his working life. The combination of action and administration that had made up his working day whilst Deputy Controller at CI5 had been ideal for him. He knew that, physically, he couldn’t stay on the streets forever but a combination role would see him through the next few years. He’d already submitted a proposal to his boss, Neville Wallace, to broaden his team’s remit from research and intelligence to more active duties and he had every hope that it would be accepted. He was taking a chance by being out on the street but he reckoned it would provide proof positive that his ideas worked in practice.

“So what do you suggest we do?” asked Doyle, now sitting with his back to the car door. Occasional bursts of fire from the house were enough to keep his head well down.

“We need to get inside.”

“And how do you propose we do that, O Tactical Genius?”

Bodie glanced up and down the street at the huddles of men using whatever cover was available.

“What we need is a diversion?”

“Have one in mind, do you?” Doyle could tell from the expression on Bodie’s face that a plan was formulating.

“Mmmm … may be I do at that.” Bodie took out his R/T and clicked ‘On’. “DI Rowan, this is Bodie. Are your men in position? Over.”

There was scratchy static before “Rowan here. All set. But can’t get much closer. They have a man in the upstairs bedroom. Pretty much got us pinned down. Over.”

“Right. We’re going to create a diversion at the front. I’ll give you the signal then you’re to go in and go in hard. The teams here will also be fully committed. Over and out.”

Bodie’s reassurance to the CID team was necessary as there had been a number of instances over the years when cooperation had been sadly lacking on joint operations. For this to be a success, the three teams had to work together.

“Doyle, tell your boys to get ready.”

“Okay, boss.” Doyle was grinning as he turned his R/T on. He liked this commanding side of Bodie’s character. It really was like old times to be out on the street again with Bodie by his side.

Bodie spoke into his R/T again.

“Billings. Can you see that coal wagon at the end of the street? Over.”

“Yes. Over.”

“Can you get to it without drawing fire? Over.”

“No problem. The driver fled when the shooting started, the engine’s still running. What d’you want me to do? Over.”

“I want you to bring it slowly down the street. Those bags of coal will absorb a lot of damage. Use it to shelter the teams as they come out of their hidey holes. When you’re outside the house, stop and get out. When I give the word, we rush ‘em. Got that? Over.”

“Got it. Over and out.”

Whilst Bodie had spoken to Billings, Doyle had prepped his team. Now they all waited.

Only minutes later, they could hear the coal truck slowly edging its way up the street. The gunmen turned their attention to the truck but as Bodie had surmised it was big enough and loaded enough to take a great deal of punishment.

When it stopped in front of the house, they saw Billings slide out of the driver’s door, then crouch by the front tyre, gun drawn. Several other agents and police had used the truck as cover as it passed them and they now waited for the signal.

Switching the R/T to the joint communication channel, Bodie shouted.

“Go, go, go!”

All hell let loose as the three teams stormed the house.

***** 

Any aftermath was depressing as the adrenalin surge faded away. This one was no different.

As the men in charge, Bodie and Doyle had followed the teams into the house, watched them check each room, dealing with the six men who’d suddenly decided that they didn’t want to face a rush of law enforcement after all and were waiting with their hands up, weapons on the ground.

On entering the front bedroom, they found one of DI Rowan’s team examining a number of boxes stacked in the alcove on the window side of the fireplace. Using a hand-held ‘sniffer’ he was making sure each box was safe before opening it and noting the contents. Given the suspected terrorist link, they were taking no chances.

Suddenly the ‘sniffer’ started to beep. Rising in pitch, it loudly proclaimed the presence of an explosive substance.

“Out! Get out!”

Bodie and Doyle reacted as quickly as ever, turning to leave the room, closely followed by the young police officer.

As they reached the bedroom door, there was an ominous click and the world exploded.

***** 

“Damn you, Ray! What did you think you were doing?”

The figure lying so still and pale in the hospital bed didn’t respond. At first glance, there didn’t even seem to be any injuries apart from a few scratches down one side of his face. Then it was clear that a patch of hair had been shaved away and a large dressing now protected the area.

Bodie sat by the bed, half leaning on it, he was so weary. He’d refused to move from Ray’s side after they’d been dragged out of the rubble that was all that remained of the first floor of the terrorist hide-out. He’d stayed with Ray as he was taken by ambulance to the nearest A&E. After being refused entry to the operating theatre, he’d made the necessary phone calls and was ready to stay by Ray’s side once he was moved to a side ward. The spectre of Cowley’s death haunted him and he refused to believe that Ray had survived until he’d been ushered into this starkly white room.

Now he waited.

***** 

A while later, consciousness returned to Ray Doyle, albeit slowly and not without flashes of pain as he tried to open his eyes.

White. All he could see was white. Then he realised he was flat on his back staring at the white ceiling. Breathing in, he recognised the antiseptic smell. He was in hospital. Trying to move, he couldn’t. His right side was paralysed! He couldn’t move his arm.

Shifting as much as he was able, he realised he wasn’t, in fact, paralysed. His hand and arm were trapped. Bodie had fallen asleep in the uncomfortable plastic visitors’ chair and had slumped against the side of the bed, grasping Doyle’s hand tightly.

“Aw, Bodie!” Doyle smiled at his partner even as he felt unconsciousness snapping at him. He was safe. Bodie was here.

***** 

Voices. He could hear voices but they seemed far away as if filtered through cotton wool. Gradually they faded away or did he fade away?

They were back again. This time he could make out actual words. And a voice. Bodie.

“I promise I will fetch you as soon as he comes round. The doc said it won’t be long now. But you need to get some rest. It won’t do for him to wake up and see you looking like you haven’t slept for a week.”

A woman’s voice. Anxious.

“But, Bodie, I need to be with him.”

“I know you do. But believe me when I say that I’ve done the vigil thing often enough to know that it doesn’t help to exhaust yourself. Ray needs you to be strong. Go. Get some rest.”

The voices faded to a murmur as a door opened and closed.

He could feel the black void creeping up on him again but he clung on until he heard the door open again. Firm footsteps crossed the room; a chair was moved by the bed, then a large, warm hand grasped his. Bodie. He’d come back.

***** 

Bodie watched. The doctor had assured him that Doyle was slowly approaching consciousness but he watched to be sure. And because he watched, he saw the eyelids start to flutter, he heard the soft moan from chapped lips, he held on tight to the hand that clenched his in pain.

“It’s alright, Ray. You’re in hospital. You’re going to be fine.”

He continued to murmur reassurances as he watched the green eyes slowly open, slowly focus on him. It was a decidedly lopsided smile but a smile nonetheless. He smiled back.

Ray’s first attempt at speech was a mere croak so Bodie quickly offered him a sip of water through a straw. The next was much better.

“Bodie. Ah, love, it’s so good to see you.”

Before Bodie could speak, the door opened and Megan came in. Seeing Ray awake, she rushed across to the bed and grabbed his free hand. The other was still gripped by Bodie.

“Ray! Oh, Ray! I was so worried!”

Doyle turned his head slightly to look at her. When he spoke, his tone was puzzled, rising to panic.

“Bodie? Who is she? What’s going on? Who is that woman?”

***** 

After Bodie called for help to deal with a semi-hysterical Megan, the doctor examined Doyle. Whilst checking his physical reactions, Dr Batchelor asked questions, lots of questions.

Bodie stood back, letting the medical man do his job, aware that Doyle’s eyes stayed on him the whole time. Now that he had a few minutes to think, his mind took him right back to Doyle’s words. Doyle hadn’t called him ‘love’ since their break-up. And there was no way it was a put-on. Doyle had been too badly injured to be able to fake the emotion Bodie had seen on his face.

“Now then, Mr Doyle, I’m just going to give you a light sedative.”

“But I’ve only just woken up.”

“This is just to relax you. You’ve been through quite an ordeal and you need to rest.”

Whilst he was talking, Dr Batchelor prepared and administered a syringe.

“There you go, Mr Doyle, that’ll take effect in a minute or two.”

Beckoning to Bodie, the doctor led the way out of the room. Reluctant to leave, Bodie watched as the green eyes slowly closed and Ray relaxed into sleep.

Dr Batchelor was waiting for him in the corridor.

“What’s going on, doc?”

“I’m not absolutely sure but I think Mr Doyle is suffering from a partial amnesia.”

“What does that mean?”

“He believes it is 1982. He has no memory of the intervening years, of his marriage or anything that has happened, hence his reaction to his wife.”

“Will he recover his memory?”

“There is every reason to suppose that he will. His head injury, whilst serious, should not leave lasting damage. It will take time but I expect he will make a full recovery.”

“I hope so.”

***** 

The next four days were a waking nightmare for Doyle as he struggled to come to terms with the memory loss. Dr Batchelor insisted that he needed to rest, to let the head injury received in the bomb blast heal, so visitors were restricted to the official visiting hours. 

He needed to talk to Bodie but his partner only appeared for a brief half hour each day, his excuse being that his presence was required in work. And he always came when that woman was there.

Doyle found it almost impossible to think of Megan as his wife. He had no memory of her at all. But he was assured, time and again, that she was, indeed, married to him. 

Every day she would appear, sit by his bedside and talk about their life together in an attempt to jog his memory back on track. Every day she left frustrated as there was no change. If it hadn’t been for Bodie’s confirmation of his marital status, he would have sworn that it was all an elaborate trick. A poor-taste practical joke being played on him.

As his headache lessened and the pain killing drugs were slowly withdrawn, he was able to spend more time trying to puzzle out what he could and couldn’t remember.

Everything was crystal clear up to Bodie leaving for The Falklands. Then there was nothing. Not even flashes of memory to guide him back to the present. He knew that he was in love with Bodie. In that case, how could he ever have married Megan? Nothing made sense any more.

***** 

Then, on the fifth day of his hospital stay, he woke up. In every sense. There was no slow realisation, no gradual reawakening, everything came back in one fell swoop. There were no missing years. He knew exactly what had happened and when.

But the perverse part of him wanted to be back in 1982, in love with life and with Bodie, not here, not in this hospital room, knowing that somehow he’d lost everything again.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Fifteen September to October 1991

Megan took him home and normality reinstated itself. The head wound had healed quickly and he was soon back at his desk, catching up on the mounds of paperwork that seemed to have grown exponentially whilst he’d been absent. It seemed that no matter which department you worked in, government ran on paper. Even the use of desk top computers didn’t seem to be lessening the burden.

Sighing, he put yet another folder into his Out Tray just as Betty entered the office carrying another pile.

“Not more?”

Betty grinned. “These are the updates from the team on the current cases. You did say you wanted them each week.”

“Put them on the pile. I’ll get to them eventually.”

As she added the folder to the In Tray, there was a knock at the door. Pre-empting any response, the door opened and a familiar dark head appeared.

Doyle immediately felt his spirits lift. “Bodie! Come in.”

“Ray. Betty. How are you both?”

Exuding his ‘hail fellow well met’ personality and rude good health, Bodie seemed to fill the office. It was unusual for Bodie to visit him, so Doyle couldn’t help his question.

“What brings you here?”

“Can’t the mountain come to Mohammed on occasion?” Bodie dragged a chair across the office to sit in front of the desk.

“I don’t recall Mohammed ever going to the mountain,” Doyle responded. “So what’s going on?”

“I,” said Bodie expansively. “Am the bearer of glad tidings.”

“In which case, you probably deserve a coffee. Yes?” queried Betty.

“Absolutely!” Bodie leapt to his feet to grab the door handle as he swept an enthusiastic bow to usher Betty from the room.

“Crikey,” said Doyle. “They must be good tidings. Tell all.”

This was the Bodie of old Doyle realised as he also recalled how much he still loved this man. Somehow the sublimation so carefully nurtured over the past years had not returned with his memory and now, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t recapture the Ray Doyle he’d become in those years. To have Bodie in his office, exuding such good humour, eyes twinkling with the knowledge that he had a secret to share, was such a joy to Doyle after the barrenness. Logically he knew that he couldn’t have Bodie. Logically he knew that he would be faithful to Megan. But emotionally he was on a high one minute and in the pit of despair the next. Still, work had helped him before.

“Come on, Bodie, what is it?”

“Oh, alright then. You’ve twisted my arm. I’ve got two pieces of news. To be fair, the first one probably isn’t all that good.” He paused and Doyle stepped into the breach.

“Okay. Let’s have the not so good piece of news first. Then you can exult all you want over the second.”

“Right. I’m sure your guys have been keeping you informed on the progress of the bombing investigation.”

Doyle nodded as Bodie continued.

“Well, my team have been following up on the information provided by those stupid buggers.”

At Doyle’s raised eyebrows, he clarified, “The idiots who took on three teams from MI5 and the Met. Seems the boxes containing explosives were already in the house when they arrived.”

“Do they have any clue who they belonged to?” queried Doyle.

“Not a one. They were told it was a safe house. That there’d be no bother. But my snitch told me that he’d heard they were there from about three different sources.”

“So someone wanted us to find them.”

“Or wanted us to find those explosives. The timer seems to have been set to take account of the time it would take us to get into the house and start searching it.”

“How on earth would anyone know how long it would take? We certainly didn’t.” Doyle shook his head, puzzled, trying to work it out. “Are the boffins sure it was on a timer? What about remote control?”

Bodie considered for a minute. “Don’t know. They claim the timer theory was the likeliest option given the debris found. Still it looks as though the explosion was a deliberate attempt to take out the forces of law and order. And, possibly, the erstwhile robbers too.”

Just then, Betty returned with a tea tray loaded not only with the coffee trappings but also with a plate of assorted biscuits. As she was pouring the drinks, Bodie fell on the biscuits as if he hadn’t eaten for days.

“Betty, darling, you’re a lifesaver. I’ve had nothing to eat since lunch. Are you sure I can’t lure you away to the joys of MI5?”

Glancing at his watch, Doyle realised it was still only 2.15pm. At least Bodie’s appetite had never changed.

After Betty had left the room again, chuckling at Bodie’s persistent attempt to recruit her, Bodie finished up the last biscuit and took a large swallow from a mug of coffee.

“So, DI Rowan is a happy man. He has nearly the whole bullion team under lock and key,” continued Bodie. “And they’re so busy protecting their own back that they’d sell out their mother. And grandmother.”

“And how is this the bad news?” asked Doyle. 

“They don’t know who masterminded the robbery.”

“What? How can they not know?”

“Seems Mr Big only communicated by phone. None of them have ever seen him.”

“Ah.”

“Yes, Doyle. Ah. And as he told them to go to the safe house, I’m assuming he set the trap.”

“Cleaning house,” mused Doyle.

“Mmmm could be. But we don’t know who or why.”

“Okay. That’s the bad news. What about this good news then?”

Bodie’s grin returned as he almost bounced in the chair.

“Well, one of them did know something. Though not about Mr Big. And it’s something our teams could cooperate on.”

“Go on.” Doyle leaned forward, his interest caught.

***** 

“The corridors of power. Whoever would have believed it?”

“Eh?” Doyle’s response was distracted as he peered through the binoculars, positioned on a podium so there was a clearer view of the rooftop opposite. The long, grey net curtains obscured the lower half of the windows so that no one could see in or out. They also would have made it really obvious if the binoculars were set lower as they would have to be moved aside to allow any kind of view. 

Bodie found himself admiring the interior view, staring at the still pert backside of Chief Superintendent Raymond Doyle. Memories flashed as Bodie allowed himself a brief indulgence. He could feel his groin tightening as he remembered the times he’d held those cheeks, pressing close to that lithe body. He dragged his gaze away just as Ray turned to ask.

“What did you say?”

Realising that he had initiated a conversation, Bodie rapidly cast his mind back and recalled his comment.

“Whoever would have believed we’d be protecting the Whitehall mandarins from the inside?”

Ray considered the question, staring solemnly at his now temporary partner.

“We’ve come a long way, Bodie. Seen too much. Done too much. But I reckon Cowley always knew.”

“Knew what?” Bodie tried to follow the convolutions of Doyle’s logic.

“That we had potential. He groomed us, Bodie.” He paused, grinning as Bodie quirked a crooked eyebrow still knowing how his companion would have interpreted that phrase. “Not that way. Get off that dirt track! I meant that he intended us to move on from CI5. He knew that the organisation wouldn’t survive without him so he plotted and planned to ensure that his legacy would go on.”

“You mean we’re his legacy. Never.”

“That’s exactly what I do mean. We’re here today guarding these murky green corridors of power because George Cowley saw something in both of us that he could use.”

“You really believe that, Ray?” Bodie wasn’t sure that he did but wanted to hear what else Doyle had to say.

“Yeah, I do. He was a devious old bastard. He used everyone and everything that came his way to further his own ends. And, on the way to those ends, he destroyed the careers of those he thought unworthy. But if he thought you were worth his while, he would go to the ends of the earth for you. And he saw something in you and me. He nurtured it. Allowed it to develop. And here we are.”

“Indeed we are.” Recalling what they were here to do, Bodie resumed what he privately thought of as his Cowley mode and pointed to the binoculars.

“Can you see anything?”

“Not a lot. The angle isn’t great. But we’ve got plenty of other eyeballs on that roof. We’re only here because we wanted to be. Not exactly crucial to the op, are we?”

“Nope. That’s the privilege of rank. Being able to stick our noses in where they’re probably not wanted.”

“Well, we learned from the best.”

“George …”

“… bloody Cowley.”

***** 

The interrogation rooms in MI5 bore little resemblance to the CI5 facility condemned by Geraldine Mather and which had continued to be used for several years after that abortive attempt to close the organisation down. They were compact, modular meeting rooms, lining each side of a bland corridor. Each room had a small window, almost at ceiling height, so there was an illusion of daylight. The furnishings were Government Issue utility, just a table and several plastic chairs. Lit by grill-covered fluorescent lights, they were soundproofed and never particularly warm. The intention was not to offer comfort to the occupants; to instil in them the knowledge that holding out was futile. That those entertained in these rooms were already tried and convicted.

Tariq Akbar knew that his personal situation was dire. Getting caught setting up a sniper rifle on a rooftop overlooking government offices was never going to be a sinecure to a comfortable future. But no one watching him would have been able to read anything in his face or posture.

Left alone, Akbar considered his options. He wasn’t prepared to divulge who had hired his services for the aborted hit. After all, he had his professional pride and a life to live if he managed to wriggle out of a UK jail sentence. The fact that he was being held by MI5 indicated that there might be some room to manoeuvre.

So he used this quiet time to put together several scenarios. He’d been a successful assassin for a number of years, surviving where others had not, and he knew things that would be of interest to the British security forces. In fact, this might be the perfect time to finally get the vengeance for which he’d hungered.

He waited. Eventually the interrogation would begin.

***** 

Returning to MI5 HQ, Bodie checked in with his senior field officer.

“How’s it going, Harry?”

Looking up from the report he was trying to compose, Harry Pearce was as lugubrious as ever. “It’s not going at all, sir. He’s not said a word yet.”

“What have we got on him so far?”

“Bits and pieces. His fingerprints don’t appear to be on any database to which we have access but we’ve flashed his photo around the usual sources. Got a couple of hits but nothing definite.”

“What about all that stuff found in the Thornton Avenue flat? I remember being told that there was enough information found to incriminate him. If we ever caught him.” Bodie had a clear memory of the boxes being carried into CI5 HQ.

“I had a look at the records,” responded Pearce. “There was a lot of incriminating stuff found and I’ll be using it when I next talk to him.”

“Mmmm.” Bodie flicked through some of the papers littering Pearce’s desk. “And we’ve got him on the assassination attempt.”

“Oh, yes, we’ve got him on that. But it was only an attempt. Won’t keep him off the streets for long.”

“I suppose we could have let him kill the Foreign Secretary.” 

Pearce’s gasp brought Bodie’s gaze back to him. 

“Well, it would have ensured a life sentence.”

Realising that his subordinate was still unsure as to whether or not he was serious, Bodie stifled the irritation he sometimes felt at the humour by-pass from which some of MI5’s finest suffered. He knew his own sense of humour was considered by many to be too offbeat and irreverent but there were times when a sarcastic or downbeat comment was the only release for the frustrations of his job.

“Okay, I’ll leave you to it. Let me know if there’s any progress.” And with that he left the Ops suite for his own office.

***** 

Harry Pearce pushed open the door to Bodie’s office to find his boss leaning back in his chair, feet propped on the desk, a file open across his knee, glasses perched on the end of his nose and his eyes shut.

Grinning, he slammed the door behind him, hoping to put Bodie at a disadvantage at being caught napping. Instead he found himself pinned to the spot by a blue-eyed glare. Although he knew Bodie had been asleep, the eyes were now alert and very definitely focussed on him.

“Did you want something, Pearce? Or are you just enjoying the view?” As he spoke, Bodie removed the glasses, put his feet to the floor, placed the file on the desk and pushed the chair upright. The indolent man of minutes before was gone. And, in his place, was the consummate professional, the man who had worked his way up through the morass of security services to head one of the most proactive departments in MI5.

Remembering what had brought him to the office in the first place, Pearce reported. “We finally got something.” As Bodie leaned forward in interest, he continued. “It seems he thinks he has something that might be of interest and wants to trade.”

“And is it of interest?”

“So far, he’s mentioned the Gatwick bullion robbery some years ago, which would definitely be of interest to the Met.”

“Nothing about who hired him to take out the Foreign Secretary?”

“Not a thing. He’s far too experienced a player to let anything slip on that score. But once it’s known we’ve picked him up, it’ll be in his best interests to offer us other information to get a deal and get out of the country.”

“And what makes him think we won’t just hand him over to the Met?”

Pearce raised an eyebrow. Bodie nodded. “He knows the game. We won’t hand him over whilst there’s a chance that he knows something of interest. So he drips information to get us to agree to a deal.”

“What do you want us to do, boss?” Pearce was as aware as Bodie as to how these things went but, at this stage, he needed authorisation.

Bodie’s expression was thoughtful, then he said, “I want us to play the game. Keep him hanging on as long as possible whilst we decide whether or not to give him a deal. But the bullion robbery is still an open Met case so let’s call the boys in blue, see what he spills on that. In the meantime, I’ll talk to the big boys about what kind of deal we’d be prepared to offer. It’s worth knowing where we stand before we start to negotiate.”

***** 

“Summerhayes!” The exclamation was punctuated by a thud as Doyle’s boot connected with the front passenger-side tyre of his Met issued Rover. “I can’t believe he named Summerhayes.” He glared at Bodie as if the messenger could take back the news. “And did he give any evidence to back up this claim?”

Bodie shrugged. Whilst the interrogation of Akbar had eventually produced a little information, none of it would stand up in court and he knew it. “Nothing that will stick to Mr Teflon.”

“So why the call, Bodie?” Doyle’s tone was suspicious as he glared at his ex-partner. “If there’s no evidence against Summerhayes, what am I doing here?”

“I didn’t say he didn’t produce something that you would find interesting.” Bodie found himself enjoying teasing Doyle. It reminded him of so very many occasions in CI5, especially in the days before they were lovers, when he’d verbally tormented the impatient Doyle, drawing out the revelation of information for as long as possible.

“Get on with it then. I haven’t got all day to stand here gossiping with you.” Knowing very well what Bodie was doing, Doyle mock punched the solid shoulder, not quite touching the grey suited elegance.

Bodie side stepped neatly and held up both hands in surrender. “Come on, I’ll buy you a coffee and fill you in. I need to get away from here for a bit.” He indicated the bland façade of MI5 HQ. “Too many ears.”

***** 

Ten minutes later they were side by side, leaning against a section of wall by the Thames, hands clasped around huge mugs of tea bought from a van that seemed to be embedded in the pavement having been in situ for so many years. Neither of them had risked the food but the tea ought to be safe.

Taking an appreciative sip, Doyle relaxed slightly. “Go on then.”

“It seems that Akbar has very specific reasons for fingering Summerhayes. Remember that bullion robbery at Gatwick some years back?”

“Yeah. What about it?”

“Akbar reckons Summerhayes was the mastermind behind it.”

“So he says.”

“So he says. And, as you pointed out earlier, there is absolutely no evidence to back up that claim.”

“What then?”

“He knows where the bullion has been hidden all this time.” Bodie paused, watching with satisfaction as his words impacted the cop Doyle now was. “And he’s prepared to tell us in return for free passage out of the UK.”

Doyle’s features sharpened as he snapped, “I can’t promise that. He has to be prosecuted for the criminal he is.”

Bodie held up a hand. “Hold your horses, Sherlock. He’s not in police custody. And, if this information holds up, I’m going to recommend that we let him go.”

“What?” Bodie could see all the signs of a Doyle righteous outburst starting to simmer. And he grinned. It was just like old times. “What are you smirking at? What do you know that I don’t?” Putting his tea mug down on the wall, Doyle poked a long finger towards Bodie’s face. “Tell me, Bodie, or so help me …”

“Alright, alright. You’ve got me dead to rights, copper.” The atrocious American accent brought a reluctant grin to Doyle’s face and he acknowledged Bodie’s tactics with a nod.

“Go on then. Why are you prepared to let this scumbag go?”

“Because he has a very valid reason to hate Summerhayes’ guts, which gives his information the ring of truth.”

“Drag it out, why don’t you? Get to the point.”

“During our investigation into the bullion robbery, we interviewed one Jerry Blake. Nice young man. Flat in Chiswick.”

“I remember. Gave us nothing on the robbery but handed over those pictures of Shona Pierce’s artwork.”

“That’s him. Well, he was shacked up with Akbar at the time. The Tariq Akbar we were tracking as a terrorist link to the robbery is the very same Akbar now sitting in a cell. You probably missed the follow up as it happened around the time of Cowley’s death but Jerry was found dead … tortured and killed in a very similar fashion to your friend, Tony, the art dealer.”

“Are you saying that Tony’s murder is linked to the bullion robbery?”

“I’m not saying anything as yet but there are threads to be followed and it appears that Summerhayes is sitting in the centre of the web.”

“Pretty fragile threads.”

“As I said, there’s no evidence. Only the word of an assassin.”

“But you believe him.”

“I believe him.”

***** 

“BULLION FOUND!”; “TOP COP – SUPER SLEUTH”, “SILVER HORDE UNCOVERED AT LAST”.

The daily newspapers trumpeted the triumph of the Met’s investigative skills and, in particular, the tenacity of Superintendent Doyle. Thrilled with this major success, the Met’s Press Office insisted that the time was right for an in-depth feature on their new star.

Ray baulked at the idea of exposing his private life to the scrutiny of the gutter press but, ordered to cooperate, he and Megan reluctantly agreed. The two page spread appeared in the magazine section of a Sunday broadsheet and was a well-written piece on the life and work of a senior police officer.

Bodie was enjoying a shared breakfast with his wife and twin boys when Sophie pointed out the article.

“There’s a piece here about Ray and Megan.” She passed the magazine across the table, avoiding as much of the detritus as was possible, though it still arrived smeared with butter and marmalade.

As he read the article, Bodie absentmindedly licked the greasy smears from his fingers.

“Not a bad piece. Doyle managed to say nothing at all about the op.”

“I don’t suppose he was very happy about doing it in the first place,” commented Sophie, wiping egg yolk from around the mouth of one twin and rescuing a cup of juice from toppling off the table.

“Too many years in CI5 with Cowley wielding the D-Notices to muzzle the press. Goes against the grain to actually talk to them.”

“He comes across very well … you’d never guess he didn’t want to be there … and he and Megan look very relaxed in the photos.” Sophie continued the clean-up and missed the expression on Bodie’s face as he stared at the main photograph.

Doyle did look relaxed, his arm around Megan’s shoulders, smiling for the camera. But Bodie, who knew him only too well, could see the tension in him. He was definitely not comfortable with the situation. He made a mental note to tease Doyle about it when next they met. Perhaps the teasing would help him to deal with the jealousy he felt seeing the woman at Doyle’s side.

Then he turned his attention to capturing the toddlers, who’d decided that Mummy needed help with the clean-up, and getting them out of the kitchen before there was too much mayhem.

***** 

In a wood-panelled, peaceful room in a Dorset mansion, sitting at a desk covered in newspaper clippings, Dominic Summerhayes read the same article. He smiled.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Sixteen November 1991 to February 1992

Turning over, he reached out only to find the other side of the bed already cold. Acknowledging how tired he must have been not to notice the early morning departure, he pulled the other pillow towards him, cuddling into it and tucking the duvet up around his neck. He had a rare day off and no need to get out of bed unless he wanted to. Taking full advantage, he went back to sleep.

Only to be woken again some while later by the telephone ringing. Groggily he dragged an arm out from under him and swatted ineffectually at the bedside cabinet. The ringing stopped.

He was awake. Years of being called to duty by a telephone bell meant that he couldn’t ignore one, even though, these days, he was unlikely to be disturbed at home. The penalties of being a ‘top cop’. However, he no longer had to race across town to CI5 headquarters in response to a phone call so, taking his time, he got out of bed.

One hot shower and close shave later, he wandered back into the bedroom, towel drying his hair. It took next to no time to dry these days. Returning to the Met had meant a more conservative take on hairstyling and dress. But at least he didn’t have to wear uniform on a daily basis.

An hour later, he’d just settled at the kitchen table with his second mug of coffee and a novel he’d been meaning to read for ages when the doorbell rang. As he went to answer it, he reflected on who it could be, then shrugged mentally. “Just open the door, Doyle,” he muttered as he reached out to grasp the handle.

His initial delight at seeing his visitor was quickly tempered by concern at her solemn mien.

“Betty! To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“May I come in, Ray?”

“Oh, of course.” Stepping back, he gestured for her to enter the flat. “Make yourself at home. Tea? Coffee?”

“Not for me, thanks.” Betty seemed somewhat at a loss now that she was in the lounge. “Er … Ray … have you seen the news this morning?”

“No. Had a lie-in. Why?” He now knew something was terribly wrong. “What’s happened?” And whilst Betty was struggling to find the words, all he could think was “Bodie! Something’s happened to Bodie.”

“It’s Megan, Ray.”

“Megan … she’s gone shopping with Claire.” The world seemed to be slowing down but her next words hammered home.

“There was an incident in Bond Street. A furrier was firebombed. There were casualties. Megan’s in hospital and … Ray … it doesn’t look good.”

***** 

Fifteen minutes later, Betty was driving him to St Mary’s, Paddington. He’d tried to insist that he was capable of driving himself but she’d given him one of those looks that had been so successful at subduing young CI5 agents. He’d given in. But now all he could do was think whilst watching the London streets rush passed.

He just couldn’t take it in. Megan had just gone out for a day’s shopping with a friend. She had no reason to be in Bond Street, let along in a furriers. But Betty was unable to give him answers. She knew no more than she’d already told him. Answers would have to wait.

***** 

A&E departments all shared similar characteristics so that they blurred into one in Doyle’s memories. Grey-green walls, rubber floor tiles, hard plastic chairs, caring but harassed nurses and doctors and expectant patients offering up everything from serious head trauma to a minor splinter. St Mary’s was usually no different. As it was the middle of the day though, it should have been relatively quiet but there were anxious people throughout the waiting area trying to get answers from the overworked receptionist.

Pushing to the front of the queue, Betty flashed her Met ID. “I was told that Megan Doyle was brought here. Where is she being treated?”

Referring to the pile of admission cards on the desk, the clerk pulled out the relevant one.

“Yes, she was brought here. If you wouldn’t mind waiting a moment, I’ll get someone out to talk with you.” She indicated the chairs nearest the desk, as she picked up the telephone receiver and dialled.

Betty steered Doyle. He accepted her guidance with the same stoicism he’d shown since she’d given him the news. Whilst functioning on some basic level, he didn’t seem to be fully aware of his surroundings. It was most unlike Doyle’s usual reactions to a crisis but Betty had no way of knowing that he was experiencing pangs of guilt because his first thoughts had been for Bodie and not his wife. With her usual professionalism, Berry covered her own anxiety and sat down to wait.

Eventually, after what seemed to be an interminable amount of time, but couldn’t have been more than ten minutes, a white coated figure approached them. Betty stood to greet the doctor.

“You’re with the Met?”

“I am. Betty Forrester. This is Ray Doyle, Megan’s husband.”

At the mention of his name, Doyle seemed to gather himself together, stood up and offered his hand. The doctor returned his handshake.

“Dr Fitzpatrick. I’ve been looking after your wife. If you’d like to come with me. I need to talk to you first. Have you been given any information at all?”

“Nothing beyond her being involved in a fire bombing.”

“Right. Just in here.” Whilst talking, the doctor had led them into the tiny relative’s room next to the reception desk. Finally Ray seemed more alert and he asked, “How is she? Can I see her?”

The doctor’s tone was sympathetic but it was all too obvious that he’d had to deliver similar news on too many other occasions.

“I’m afraid she’s in a critical condition, Mr Doyle. She suffered third degree burns as well as blast injuries.”

At Doyle’s gasp, he paused, giving him a quick professional once-over. Reassured that he wasn’t going to collapse, the doctor continued.

“We have treated the cuts and abrasions in order to make her as comfortable as possible.”

“And the burns?”

“She can’t feel them. The depth of the burns is such that the body’s pain receptors have been destroyed. It does mean that she is not in pain but there is the likelihood of infection and, of course, shock given the nature of the injuries.”

“And what are her chances?” Doyle could feel himself retreating behind the wall of standard questions, asked all too often over the years. He knew he sounded impersonal but he needed the wall if he was to survive whatever the doctor had to tell him. Hope was a very fragile thing so he hid it for now.

“It is difficult to say at the moment. Her injuries are severe but they are survivable. She is being transferred to Intensive Care as we speak. She will get the very best of care, Mr Doyle.”

“I’m sure she will, doctor. I’d like to see her.”

“Of course. If you would wait here, I’ll send a nurse along to take you to the ward.”

***** 

It felt like he’d been sitting on the hard plastic chair for hours but he knew that was an illusion. Nurses flitted in and out of the bay, tweaking this and that, checking blood pressure and temperature. Megan had been sedated on arrival on the ward whilst all the medical paraphernalia of life support was set up. The doctor had assured Doyle that the sedation was only temporary as they would need Megan conscious in order to make a further assessment of her injuries.

At the moment she looked as if she were asleep; her face peaceful and relaxed. The only obvious sign of her injuries was the bandaging on her arms. She’d raised them to protect her head and they had taken the brunt of the blast impact. A light sheet was draped over a framework to prevent any weight on the actual burns, which were mainly concentrated on her lower body and legs. She was also lying on a special mattress, designed to put as little pressure as possible on the wounds.

He felt so helpless. He couldn’t even hold her hand.

***** 

Slumped in the chair, shoulders forward, head down, hands hanging between his knees; he almost didn’t hear the raspy whisper.

“Ray.”

“Megan, love.”

“Ray.” The whisper came again and her arm moved slightly as she tried to reach out to him.

Very gently, Ray touched her fingertips. “I’m here, love.”

She sighed, then smiled at him. But before she could speak again, a monitor started to beep frantically. Her eyes closed.

Ray found himself being pushed out of the way as medical staff reacted to the alarm. He backed away from the bed, but stayed at the edge of the bay, watching, with growing horror, as the medical team fought for his wife’s life.

***** 

The grey, overcast December sky was a perfect match for the mood of the day. Icy, drizzling rain came in intermittent showers and found its way around umbrellas and down coat collars.

The church was packed with family, friends and acquaintances and the service was conducted by a priest who had known Megan Doyle since her First Communion, giving an extra poignancy to the remembrances he shared.

There were occasional sobs from her mother and sisters but Ray Doyle was a statue, maintaining the outwardly calm demeanour that had settled on his shoulders as the doctor had confirmed what he didn’t need to be told. His wife was dead.

***** 

Only immediate family and close friends accompanied the priest and the coffin on the walk across the graveyard.

Standing close, but not too close, Bodie heard the small, choked-off cry as Ray threw a handful of soil into the grave. And knew that the storm was coming. He just hoped that Ray would keep it together through the wake.

***** 

There seemed to be a never ending stream of people he didn’t know offering meaningless condolences as he stood at the door to the parish hall. Somehow he managed to murmur something appropriate to each, even raising a small, sad smile for his CI5 and Met colleagues and friends.

At some point, a small glass of sherry appeared in his hand. He disliked the drink intensely but it gave him something to do with his hands and made it appear that he was participating. He couldn’t bring himself to eat though; something he hadn’t managed to do much of over the past week. He drifted from group to group, endeavouring to listen to the reminiscences but it was all so much burbling.

Eventually his small store of social energy wound down and he found himself leaning on the wall beside the bar. The sherry glass was still full.

Looking around, there were still a few people in the hall, eating, drinking, talking, life continuing.

“Come on, mate. Let’s get you out of here.” A large, warm arm wrapped around his shoulders and eased him away from the wall. The rich, melodious voice continued, “You need to rest. You’re coming home with Sophie and me.”

As they moved towards the door, he was vaguely aware of the woman on his other side but most of his attention was focussed on the man. Bodie. Home.

***** 

As they stepped out of the parish hall door, a small figure hurled itself across the car park. Before any of them could react, the woman had flung her arms around Ray and was sobbing his name.

The impact roused Doyle enough that he recognised her. “Claire!”

“Oh, Ray, I am so very sorry. I had to come and tell you. I only got out of the hospital this morning. I had to come and tell you.” She sobbed as she gabbled. “It’s all my fault. I insisted that Megan come with me to that shop. She didn’t want to come. She was against wearing fur. But she was my friend so she came with me. And it’s all my fault.”

Bodie found himself supporting even more of Doyle’s weight as he was pushed back by Claire, so it was Sophie who moved around and gently eased the almost hysterical woman away. As she comforted Claire, Bodie managed to get the now sobbing man into the back seat of the car. The dam had broken.

***** 

Bodie sat with Doyle, keeping his arm tight around the shaking shoulders. Sophie drove them home, swiftly and competently. Not knowing the words that could bring comfort, Bodie opted for silence.

Gradually the sobs subsided to the occasional hiccup. Doyle raised his head. He’d huddled into Bodie’s right shoulder, clinging onto his coat lapel as if to a lifeline. But as the flood of grief slowed to a trickle, he because more aware of his surroundings and pushed up, away from Bodie. The warm, comforting arm tightened to resist the move away.

“It’s all right, mate. Stay where you are for now. We’re nearly home.”

“Home!” Throat still tight with tears, the word was a squeak and a denial.

“It’s okay, Ray. We’re taking you to our home. You need some peace and quiet, some recovery time.” Sophie’s voice was soft, concerned. “The boys are with friends for a few days,” she continued. “So you won’t have to contend with them.”

Allowing himself to be soothed, Ray subsided back into Bodie’s shoulder. The caring was so very welcome.

***** 

The house was quiet as the couple ushered Doyle inside.

“I’ll make tea,” said Sophie as Bodie opened the living room door.

“Come on, Ray, make yourself comfortable.” Almost leading Doyle to the couch, Bodie helped him out of his suit jacket and gently pushed him down amongst the cushions.

Pulling off his tie and undoing the collar button of his shirt, Doyle gave a sigh, “Thanks, Bodie. I never thought I’d have to go through something like that.” He lay back on the cushions and closed his eyes.

Bodie stood over him for a minute, his expression fond. Still unsure of finding the right words to comfort, he opted for practicalities. “You just rest yourself. I’ll help Sophie with the team.” And he quietly left the room.

*****

Returning to work was relatively easy for Doyle. The male dominated environment of the Metropolitan Police wasn’t given to overt gestures of sympathy so he was able to slip back into his office and his workload, knowing that there wouldn’t be continual reminders of the reason for his absence. And his workload was such that there was no time for brooding.

He had built a good team. Working with George Cowley for years had taught him the benefit of getting the right people for the job and so they had managed without him for three weeks whilst he coped with the funeral arrangements and the aftermath of his wife’s death.  
But he had yet to return to the flat he’d shared with Megan. Bodie and Sophie had made it very clear that he was welcome to stay as long as he wanted and he had found the warm, family environment offered a balm to his battered soul.

Returning to the house one evening after a particularly busy day, he knew that he had to start making decisions about his personal life. The flat and Megan’s belongings had to be dealt with before he could start to move on. Guilt about his first reactions to the news about the bombing continued to gnaw at him so his feelings for Bodie, once more in full flood, had to be pushed back behind the emotional barriers to enable him to function. 

Pushing open the garden gate, avoiding various toys adorning the path, he looked at the house, which seemed to draw him in with its cosy domesticity, something he had never before associated with Bodie, but which suited his friend. He would talk to Bodie after dinner. It was time to move on.

***** 

“You don’t have to do that, Ray.” Bodie sat on the sofa watching his friend pace back and forth. “You’re welcome to stay. We like having you here.” He included Sophie though his wife was busy bathing the twins.

“I think I have to.” Turning to face his friend, he stopped moving but couldn’t seem to stop his hands twisting together. “It’s been nearly a month now. Megan’s family keep asking when I’m going to go through her things. Would you come with me?”

“Of course, I will.” Though clearing through a dead woman’s belongings was way down his list of pleasant things to do. With sudden insight, he asked, “But it’s more than that, Ray. There’s something else. Something’s been eating away at you. Can’t you tell me? I’ll help if I can.”

“You can’t help, Bodie. It’s something I have to deal with.” Doyle’s face was stricken. He almost looked as if he were about to throw up.

“Aw, mate, it can’t be that bad. Problem shared is a problem halved or so they say.” Bodie leaned forward and started to stretch out his hand in comfort but Ray stepped back. “What? Is it me? Have I done something? I wouldn’t hurt you for the world, Ray.”

“Oh, Bodie. It’s not you, it’s me. I thought I was past all this but these last months, working closely with you, it’s not over. And if I stay any longer, I’m going to hurt you and Sophie and the boys. And I don’t want to do that. I can’t do that.”

“Ray?” Bodie’s voice was tentative. He couldn’t believe what he thought he was hearing. He needed confirmation. “What are you trying to tell me?”

The Doyle temper kicked in defensively. “Even you can’t be that thick, Bodie! I’m still in love with you. Whilst I should be mourning my wife, I’m trying to cope with the fact that I have never stopped loving you. If I stay here any longer, I will say, or do, something we will both regret.”

Bodie found himself on his feet, reaching out, gathering Doyle into a bear hug. Although he tried to pull away, Bodie hung on, incoherently mumbling his friend’s name over and over.

Holding Doyle in a tight embrace, Bodie felt more at ease that he had done for years. There was just something so familiar about the shape and weight and smell of the body he was supporting. 

Although he felt totally at home in Bodie’s arms, Doyle knew that he couldn’t stay there so he gently extricated himself but stayed close.

“I have to go home, Bodie. You have commitments here.”

“You’re welcome to stay as long as you want to. You do know that, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do. Both of you have made me so very welcome. I feel like part of the family. And that isn’t right, given the way I feel about you.”

Bodie stepped away as he began to realise that the feelings he’d kept locked away were creeping past his defences as he tried to comfort his friend and ex-lover. He wanted Doyle to stay. But he knew he couldn’t. It wouldn’t be right.

“Okay. But don’t feel you have to rush things. We’re both here for you.”

The emotional storm having died down slightly, Doyle nodded. He pulled his defences back into place. He could do this. He’d done it for years. He was just grieving for Megan and over emotional with the closeness of Bodie. 

“Thanks, mate.” He turned away from Bodie, who started to reach out to him but stopped. 

At the door, Sophie Bodie slowly backed out into the hallway. She’d finished with the twins and had come to the lounge in time to see the final minutes of the scene between Doyle and her husband. Now was not the time to confront them but she knew that she would have to talk to Bodie and soon.

***** 

In the end, returning to the flat he and Megan had shared was less of an ordeal than he expected. As Bodie was at work, Sophie went with him as the boys were at school and they met Megan’s sisters there. After hugs all round, the three women organised everything, leaving Ray to potter around, slowly re-absorbing the ambience of the home they’d built.

Throughout the CI5 years, he’d lived in a series of secured, furnished accommodation, moving on a regular basis, accumulating as little as possible to avoid the aggravation of packing and unpacking. But on re-joining the Met, he and Megan had purchased the neat two-bedroom flat in a mansion block in Kensington and they had enjoyed decorating and furnishing it.

He was staring at the terrarium, bought at Camden Lock from Mayli before she’d tried to kill him, and which he had kept despite its grim associations, when Sophie came in. Megan had recently re-planted it, making it a feature on the shelves to one side of the fireplace.

“It’s a beautiful piece.” Sophie came to stand close to him.

“Lots of history in it.” Ray turned. “Have you finished?” He deliberately directed her attention away from it as he didn’t want to talk about that period of his life.

“I’ve left Vicky and Sara packing the last bits and pieces. Do you want to check what we’ve done?”

“No, no. I’m sure it’ll be fine. I really wouldn’t have known what to do with her clothes and jewellery.”

“You’re not expected to. No one knows how to deal with this situation. We all just stumble our way through it. Is there anything you’d like us to take from in here?”

Ray glanced around the living room and smiled, sadly. “I think I’ll leave this room as it is. For now anyway.”

Shortly afterwards, he locked the front door, as each of them carried fully loaded boxes to the cars. He knew he would be back.

***** 

Shortly after clearing out some of Megan’s belongings, Doyle moved back into his own flat. Sharing a home with Bodie, Sophie and the boys had become even more difficult for him though Bodie never made any mention of the scene between them. So he packed his bags and went home

*****

Returning to the house late one evening several weeks after Doyle had gone back to his own flat, Bodie found Sophie in the lounge. The children in bed, she was relaxing with a novel and a glass of wine. As he entered the room, she started to get up but he waved her back.

“It’s alright, love. Stay put. I’ll get it.” He moved easily across the room, dropping his briefcase and coat onto a convenient chair. Loosening his tie, he grasped one of the crystal tumblers – a wedding gift from Cowley – and selected a bottle from the collection arranged on the cabinet. Pouring a goodly measure, he took an appreciative sip before turning to Sophie. He frowned a little. It was unusual for her to drink alcohol without a meal but before he could query it, she opened the conversation with her usual welcoming gambit.

“How was your day, dear?” It had become a small ritual whenever he arrived home at a civilised hour. Ever since they’d spent a peaceful Sunday afternoon watching a dreadful film made in the 1950s, which had depicted the oh-so-perfect life of an upper middle class couple. The dutiful wife waiting at home to greet the returning husband with an aperitif and dinner ready to be served. Sophie had found it hilarious and had adopted the greeting. She knew that Bodie would never be able to tell her the truth of his working day, but it was a shared moment to ease him back into family life.

“Same old, same old,” he responded as he eased himself into an armchair. “How are the boys?”

“Holy terrors as usual. But they went straight to sleep so here’s to a peaceful night.” She raised her wine glass in salute.

As he returned the salute, he realised that there was something troubling Sophie. Whilst appearing relaxed and chatty, there was an underlying tension and he was proved right as she carefully put the wine glass down and leaned forward.

“Will … I need to talk to you. And I need you to listen to me.”

“What is it? Is there something wrong with the twins?”

“No, no. They’re absolutely fine. But there is something wrong.”

She paused, searching for the right words to convey her concerns. “I know that you’re not happy, Will. No … don’t say anything yet. I just want you to listen to what I have to say. It’s taken me a long time to work it all out and I don’t want to mess it all up now. You’re too good at deflection. At side-tracking me when I’ve tried to talk to you previously.”

“But …”

“No. Listen to me.” Bodie had never heard Sophie so determined. The easy going woman he’d lived with for the last eight years had been replaced by this assertive individual.

“I knew when I married you that you were not in love with me. Oh I’ve no doubt you loved me and you still do. But you were not in love with me. Someone had hurt you very badly and made it impossible for you to fall in love completely. Or so I thought. I was perhaps naïve. But I was, and am, still very much in love with you, which is why I want to see you happy.”

“I don’t understand where this is coming from. I’ve never …”

“No, you’ve never given me any reason to doubt you. But I realised finally that it wasn’t that you’d been hurt. But that you were still in love with someone else. I don’t know why you aren’t still together and I don’t need you to tell me. But I do need you to sort your head out and decide who it is you truly want to be with.”

“Sophie, you’ve got it all wrong. I’m not in love with anyone else. You’re my wife. I love you.” Bodie leant forward so that he could clasp Sophie’s hands as if by touching her he could convince her of his sincerity.

“And it’s because I’m your wife that I feel I have to sort things out with you now. Ever since Ray stayed with us, I’ve known.”

“Known what? What do you think you know?”

“That you’re in love with Ray Doyle.”

“No, no. You’re wrong.” Bodie pulled away and started to get out of the armchair.

“I am right, Will, and I know it. Don’t run away from me now. I only want what’s best for you, me and the boys.”

Sinking back into the armchair, Bodie stared in dismay at his wife. He had spent the years since his return from The Falklands burying his feelings for Ray Doyle. He thought he’d succeeded in hiding them from everyone. But now he was confronted with the knowledge that at least one other person knew. And that was the one person who should never have known. He’d never had any intention of hurting Sophie. She and the boys were part of his fortress against the pain of loving his ex-partner.

“I’ve thought about this a lot, Will, and I think you need to seek some professional help.”

“What?” There seemed to be no end to the shocks Sophie had to deliver.

“There has to be a reason why you’ve denied your feelings for Ray. And if you don’t know what it is then your psyche is severely damaged in some way. I want you to get this sorted out so that we can decide if we have a future together or not.” Sophie’s American upbringing meant that she was far more accepting of psychiatric help. For Bodie it meant the type of interference he’d always avoided when possible.

“Do you want a divorce?” All Bodie could hear was a rejection.

“Good God! No!” Sophie was horrified that he’d jumped to that conclusion. “I love you. I want to be with you. But I also want you to be happy and accepting of who you are. I know that makes me sound like some kind of martyr. But I’m no saint, Will. I will fight to keep you and this marriage as long as I believe there is a chance for us.”

“I don’t need to talk to anyone else. We can sort this out between us.” Bodie’s desperation slipped through.

“I’m not a professional. Please try. For me and the boys. If it helps you sort out who and what you are then we have a chance to make it work.” Sophie was pleading with him to understand how important it was to her for him to seek help. “Ever since Ray left, you haven’t been sleeping well. You’ve had nightmares … don’t deny it. I’ve woken up to find you gripped by some terror and you don’t respond to me. Your appetite is also off and, if they haven’t already noticed in work, they soon will. They will make you seek help. I’m asking you. Do it for me; do it for the boys. But, most of all, do it for yourself.”

Sophie’s plea was so passionate that Bodie found himself really listening to what she had to say. He wasn’t a man who had ever opened up to other people much beyond the surface. Now he began to realise that the repression of feelings was beginning to spill over into his everyday life. And, if he wanted to save his marriage, then this was something he would have to do. 

“Alright. I’ll find someone.” 

It was only on hearing the capitulation that Sophie realised that she’d been expecting him to walk out and to return later acting as if the conversation had never taken place. The relief that now flooded through her was profound and she threw herself onto Bodie’s lap, her arms wound around his neck and sobbed, “Thank you. Oh, thank you!”

His arms tight around her, Bodie wondered just what it was he’d agreed to.


	17. Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Seventeen March to May 1992

The Summerhayes case remained on the back boiler. Neither Bodie nor Doyle had the time, inclination or manpower to devote to it full-time but they both gathered snippets of information as they tried to pull all the threads together. 

Occasionally meeting up for a drink after work, they would exchange what information they had and discuss possible ways and means of bringing the man to justice. But the barrier of proof remained. Without it the Director of Public Prosecutions would not act. And Bodie, certainly, was only too happy to let it lapse. He had never understood Doyle’s obsession with the case so whilst he was happy to add what bit of information came his way, he didn’t let the lack of action worry him.

On this particular evening, they’d agreed to meet up at the Scarsdale public house, not too far from Doyle’s flat. This early in the evening, the pub wasn’t too busy so they easily found a table and the first round was on Doyle.

Sitting back with a sigh, Bodie placed his pint glass squarely on the cardboard beer mat and watched as Doyle started to shred another.

“What’s up?”

The question startled Ray, bringing him out of his reverie. He shrugged ruefully, gathering all the bits together into a neat pile.

“Oh, same old, same old. Too much bureaucracy, too little action.”

“Be careful what you wish for. There’s bound to be a wicked, criminal conspiracy just around the corner.”

“Oh no, conspiracies are your domain. That’s what you spooks have to deal with.”

“Spooks! We’re not spooks! I’ll have you know that we’re Her Majesty’s Spymasters.” Bodie’s voice shook with laughter even as he tried to defend his service from the scurrilous attack.

“Spymasters!” exclaimed Doyle. “Which Elizabeth do you think is on the throne?”

“Can just see me in a doublet and hose. Got the legs for it.”

“Yeah. Frog’s legs!”

Doyle neatly avoided the half-serious swipe from Bodie. Taking a long swig from his pint glass, he sighed.

“Go on then. Tell me. What’s up?” Realising that Doyle’s mood was not to be diverted by silly banter, Bodie went straight to the point.

“Oh, hell, Bodie. There are days when the whole bloody bureaucratic mess is too much to take.”

“Go on, tell Uncle Bodie. You know you want to. What kicked this off?”

The familiar teasing raised a half-smile so Doyle continued.

“Believe it or not, it’s the McAllister case again.”

“Ye gods, Ray, you’re not still on that one?!”

“You know I can’t let it go. Just as I think I can, another piece of the puzzle comes in. But there are still too many pieces missing. All my team keep their ears to the ground, bringing in snippets from time to time. I spend what time I can spare on it.” He stopped, long fingers back to shredding another beer mat.

“So you’ve continued to investigate …” Bodie prompted,

“And today I was told to drop it. It’s a cold case, so cold you can see the icicles on the file. And, apparently, my time would be better spent on my current caseload.”

“It’s a fair point.” Doyle’s head came up sharply, eyes glaring. “Now don’t bite my head off, Ray. So far all you’ve got is a lot of suspicion and hearsay. No real proof. Right?”

“But …”

“Right?”

“Yeah, right.”

“So, whilst this is clearly a police matter, the police don’t have the resources to devote to finding proof.”

“I suppose.” Knowing Bodie was right didn’t make it any easier to hear.

“I, on the other hand, have the freedom to investigate whoever and whatever. Particularly if there are terrorist links. So get the files across to me and I’ll see what I can find. MI5 has got to be good for something.”

“Thanks, Bodie.” The smile was vintage Ray Doyle and Bodie felt warmed throughout.

***** 

Having given strict instructions that he wasn’t to be disturbed under any circumstances, Doyle was ploughing his way through a backlog of paperwork. When the phone rang, he scowled and considered ignoring it. However, knowing it could only be an emergency, he snatched up the receiver.

“Doyle.”

“Mornin’ sunshine. And how are you this fine day?”

“Oh, it’s you.” The tone was decidedly grumpy.

“What’s got into you? Is that anyway to speak to the bearer of glad tidings?”

“And what glad tidings would those be? And how did you get past Betty? I’m not taking calls.”

“You’re taking this one. And Betty and I go way back.”

“Don’t give me that old chestnut. You never even got her to go on a date, never mind any further.” By now Doyle’s voice was reflecting the upturn in his mood. Bodie had always been able to talk him round.

“You’d need to ask Betty about that. As you know, I don’t kiss and tell.”

“Since when? Go on then. What are these glad tidings you have for me?”

“We’ve found the painting.”

“What painting?” Doyle wasn’t on the same track as his ex-partner.

“What d’you mean? What painting? The one that’s caused us so much trouble this last ten years. The harbour scene by Shona Pierce. That’s what painting.”

“You’re serious? Tell me, you’re serious.”

“Of course I’m serious. I don’t go to the trouble of getting through Betty’s defences for just any old bit of news. So, d’you want to see it?”

***** 

Walking into Bodie’s office a short while later, Doyle gaped. Propped on two chairs and learning against one wall was the painting that had remained so vividly in his memory all these years. The photographs hadn’t done it justice at all. The colours positively glowed, bringing the scene to life.

The sky was the rich, vivid blue only occasionally achieved on those rare, hot English summer days. The sea reflected the blue in its green depths. Holidaymakers walked along the harbour walls, enjoying the sun, pointing out the boats. In the distance was the sheer magnificence of the cliff, plunging several hundred feet to the beach below. And, in the enclosed harbour, were several boats ranging from the traditional fishing smack to the luxurious motor yacht.

The painting encapsulated a perfect moment, imbuing the viewer with the peacefulness of the scene, showing all the life captured by the artist’s eyes and hands.

“Is it what you remember?” The question came from behind the large desk where Bodie lounged in a swivel chair.

“It’s everything and more than I remember.” Drawn by invisible strings, Doyle moved towards the painting, reaching out to touch.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” A voice Doyle didn’t recognise spoke from behind him. He whirled round to see that Bodie had company. The other man had positioned himself so as to be out of sight of the doorway and, with his attention caught by the painting, Doyle had totally failed to register his presence. “As I understand it, the painting is evidence in a murder case. Forensics needs to examine it first.”

Embarrassed to be caught in such a basic error, Doyle’s question came out quite harshly. “And you would be?”

Seeing both men start to bristle, Bodie intervened.

“Ray, this is Harry Pearce, one of my team and the main reason why the painting is here today. Harry, meet Superintendent Ray Doyle, ex-terror of Stepney Green, and the man on a mission so far as this painting is concerned. Shake hands politely, gentlemen.”

Doing as Bodie requested, a firm handshake was exchanged.

“I’ve heard a lot about you, Superintendent.”

Glancing at Bodie, Ray commented, “And I’ve never heard a word about you, Mr Pearce.”

“Ah, that would be because we’re spooks, wouldn’t it, Harry?”

“Yes, Bodie. I do believe that would be why.”

“Harry is the senior field officer and the mainstay of my team. Lots of useful experience in Northern Ireland with A Section, a stint with those delightful chaps at MI6 and now here with me. Been known to save the lives of Prime Ministers has Harry.”

A discreet cough stopped Bodie in mid-flow. A glance at Pearce, then he continued.

“Harry’s right. That was probably far more than you needed to know. However, I trusted Doyle with my life for fifteen years in CI5 so I’m sure I can trust him with a little of yours, Harry. Lots of things may have changed but not that.”

Diverting attention from life histories and national secrets, Doyle asked, “Where did you find it?” His gaze was drawn back, once more, to the painting.

It was Harry who answered. “Bodie’s had us looking into the McAllister case off and on over the last couple of months. Fascinating combination of theft, murder, conspiracy and terrorism without any actual evidence to bring a case. However, as you know, our remit is something like CI5’s used to be. We can ask questions and get answers without the bother of warrants and such like if we think there is a need. So bits and pieces have come to light and one of them led me to a lock-up in Streatham. And there it was. Along with an eclectic mixture of art, guns, and tins. Lots and lots of tinned food.”

“Any idea who …?”

“’fraid not, Mr Doyle. The lock-up was rented through a variety of off-shore companies. We’re still trying to get to the bottom of who actually used it.”

“So, Ray, what do you want to do with it?”

“Well, the lab boys do need to have it to see if there’s any physical evidence. Unlikely though as it’s been so long and who knows how many people have handled it. But …” He paused as he stared at the landscape.

“What is it?” Bodie and Pearce asked at the same time, both struck by the expression on Doyle’s face.

“There’s something … I remember … the photographs were of this painting. Yes?”

“I have them here,” said Bodie, pulling out an envelope and spreading the prints across his desk. “There are several different sets. These are Shona Pierce’s own photographs that she used to finish the painting including one of Summerhayes. They were found in Wally Peterson’s safe. Then there’s the set of copies Wally gave to young Jerry Blake. This final set are the ones taken by the insurance company after Summerhayes bought the painting.”

Leaning over the desk together, the three men examined the photos, glancing back at the original painting from time to time.

“That’s it,” exclaimed Doyle. “Shona photographed Summerhayes on that yacht - ‘Tipsy Wench’. Here he is.” A long finger pointed at the photograph. “But there’s no way to be sure when the photo was taken and so no real way to tie him into the owner’s murder, which took place that summer. Then there’s the insurance photo and the painting. I’m sure the painting has been altered in some way from the one I saw at the McAllister house. But there’s only my memory to rely on for that. We need to get it examined by an art expert once the lab boys have finished.”

“There’s really nothing here, Doyle,” commented Harry Pearce as he gathered the photographs back into the envelope.

“I know, I know. It’s just this gut feeling I’ve had all these years. The painting is the link and if it has been altered and we can work out why then I think all those puzzle pieces will finally come together.”

****

“I knew it! I bloody knew it!” Ray Doyle practically crowed with delight as he viewed the oil painting of Bridport Harbour. If he’d thought the colours glowed before, now they were even more vibrant, almost coming off the canvas. Someone had done an excellent job of cleaning it.

And, there, on the “Tipsy Wench” were two figures: one getting off the yacht and one watching. Not the empty yacht that had appeared in the insurance photographs. Nor had the second figure appeared in any of Shona’s snaps but then she’d been capturing the whole scene not a meeting taking place on one of the boats in the harbour.

“There is something else you need to see,” said Bodie as he pulled a dust sheet off another large canvas. “This is the painting we sent to be examined by Forensics.”

Doyle stared in amazement at the two paintings now side by side. The only difference he could see was that one of them showed two figures on the motor yacht.

“What’s going on, Bodie?”

“As you know, Forensics found very little of any use on the painting. But one of the lab rats fancied himself as a bit of an art expert and he suspected that the painting might be a fake. So I set my guys on it. It took a while for them to track down the artist. We’d got several possibilities but they were all legitimate, not given to forging other people’s artwork even for a considerable fee. However, each was able to provide other possibilities and, gradually, a name drifted to the top.”

Doyle was still gazing in fascination at the two landscapes as Bodie continued. 

“Peter Davis was a talented student in need of additional funds to top up his grant when he was approached by a mysterious benefactor who offered him a great deal of money to remove two figures from a large oil painting. Realising that his skills were not up to changing the painting, something even the most skilful would have had difficulty doing, he opted to copy it. And he quite happily accepted an envelope full of cash on handing over the forgery.”

“And who was this mysterious benefactor? And how did you find the original?”

“When we finally tracked down Mr Davis, now working as a scenery painter at the National Theatre, it was obvious that he’d not fulfilled his earlier promise either as an artist or as a forger. Whilst unable to name the man who’d hired him all those years ago, he did identify him from a photograph. It was Dominic Summerhayes.”

“And the original?”

“He’d kept it. Knew he couldn’t sell it whilst Summerhayes had the forgery. Thought it might be useful insurance someday so he’d hidden it away. Decided that a life of crime wasn’t for him; his nerves weren’t up to it so he’d settled for the mundane.”

Now, as Doyle viewed the paintings in Bodie’s office, they discussed the implications of what the original had revealed.

“So, who’s the other fella?” Bodie queried, standing back as if perspective would give him the answer.

“Could be anyone. Shona wasn’t painting portraits. But there could be some clue in there. Just have to study it.”

“I don’t think staring at it is going to get the clues jumping out at us.”

Frowning, Doyle approached the original painting again. This time when he reached out, there was no sarcastic voice to stop him. Gently, his fingers traced the outline of a fishing smack.

“What’re you thinking?”

Doyle turned to face Bodie, his expression thoughtful.

“I think, somewhere along the line, we’ve missed a trick. We haven’t been able to establish when Summerhayes was on the yacht as Shona took her photographs over several months, capturing different aspects of the harbour. And now we have a mystery man to identify.” 

He paused.

“Go on,” Bodie encouraged. “What’s worrying at that copper’s brain?”

“The other boats. If we can identify the boats then the Harbour Master would have a record of their comings and goings.”

“And when we’ve got them all in the harbour at the same time, we’ve got a date.”

“Of course, this assumes that Shona used a specific day for the scene.”

“Oh I think she did. Her photographs of the boats all show the same selection. I think she took them all on the same day,” Bodie stated.

“Then get your team on it. If we’ve got a date, we should be able to identify the second man.”

***** 

Shona’s photographs were blown up and examined and any clue pieced into the puzzle to get names or registration numbers. Eventually they had a period of four days when all the boats were in the harbour at the same time.

Dominic Summerhayes had been on board the “Tipsy Wench” sometime between 2 and 5 June 1981 and the owner of the yacht had been found dead several days later.

At last they had some tangible evidence with which to confront Summerhayes.

***** 

The car drifted to a halt just where the driveway started to dip towards the house. According to the local constabulary, recruited for basic surveillance, Dominic Summerhayes was at home. Bodie and Doyle had, however, made doubly sure by telephoning him to make an appointment. The recovery of the stolen landscape was sufficient excuse.

Staring down at the house, sitting in the mellow early evening light, the temporary partners considered the task ahead. Neither of them were field agents any more. They directed operations; they didn’t participate. But they’d both insisted, indeed demanded, that their superiors allow them to do this. To bring to a close a case that had haunted the last ten years of their lives.

“Come on then, Kemo Sabe, let’s get on with it,” Bodie urged and Doyle put the car into gear.

***** 

“Gentlemen, gentlemen! Welcome to my home!” Summerhayes was all smiles and suave affability as he stood to greet his visitors. “That’ll be all, Thomas. Oh, unless these gentlemen would care for a drink? No. Okay then.”

The incredible hulk, who’d answered the front door and shown them across an enormous hallway to the study, backed out of the room, closing the door as he did so.

Waving a languid hand towards a couple of comfortable chairs, Summerhayes propped one buttock on the large desk, the grey trousers pulling taut across his groin. Behind him, the windows showed the rolling green of the Dorset countryside down to the sea.

Bodie and Doyle exchanged a glance. Summerhayes had positioned himself so that the light obscured their view of him.

“You said on the telephone that you had news about the paintings stolen some years ago.”

“In 1983,” confirmed Doyle. “But it’s only the one painting.”

“Only one. After all this time?”

“I’m afraid so, Mr Summerhayes. In fact it was sheer chance that led us to this one.”

“And how was that?”

“I’m not at liberty to divulge that information, I’m afraid. On-going investigation and so on.”

“Ah, I see. And the painting you recovered? May I see it?” The tone of Summerhayes voice had tightened with anticipation.

“We have it here. Thought it would be easier for you to identify it personally.” Doyle turned to Bodie, who had carried in a large brown paper wrapped parcel. Picking it up, he handed it across to Summerhayes, who had risen eagerly.

Grasping it, Summerhayes laid it on the desk, ripping the covering away. As the painting was revealed, they could see the gloating expression.

“You recognise it then?” Bodie asked, speaking for the first time.

For a moment, it was as if Summerhayes had not heard the question so rapt was he on the magnificent landscape.

“It is mine.” There was no doubt as to the proprietary nature of the statement.

“That’s as may be, Mr Summerhayes,” said Bodie smoothly. “But I’m sure your insurance company would be very interested to hear that you claimed a great deal of money on a forgery.”

If they hadn’t personally witnessed it, neither Bodie nor Doyle would have believed the transformation that took place in front of them. Gone was the suave, sophisticated art connoisseur. In his place was a towering six foot plus of rage. 

Summerhayes turned to face them as they both stood to deal whatever happened next.

“What do you mean by a forgery?” The voice was now a low growl.

“Exactly what I said, Mr Summerhayes.” Bodie’s tone remained cool and collected. “The painting that was stolen from you, which we have brought with us today, is actually a forgery.”

“That’s not possible! I bought the painting from a legitimate gallery.”

“Indeed you did. And that was the original by Shona Pierce.” Doyle now spoke up. He and Bodie had gradually edged away from each other so that they covered Summerhayes from either side. “But you paid Peter Davis to change the painting. To remove the two figures on the motor yacht so that they couldn’t be identified.”

“And the painting you insured and later claimed on as a Shona Pierce original was this painting.” Bodie indicated the landscape on the desk. “And this is a forgery.”

Summerhayes’ complexion was an ugly shade of purple as he struggled to hold onto his temper whilst assimilating what he was being told.

He took a deep breath before continuing. “I know nothing about any forgery. I bought an original piece of art from a legitimate dealer.”

“Indeed you did, Mr Summerhayes. And we are not disputing the original transaction.” Bodie once more took up the conversation. “We’re not even here to arrest you for forgery. After all you owned the original landscape quite legitimately and were well within your rights to ask a young artist to alter it for you.”

“There, I told you …” Summerhayes started to interrupt.

“But we are here to arrest you on suspicion of the murder of Sam Thorndike on or about 2 June 1981.” Doyle proceeded with the arrest formalities. “If you would accompany us, we have a number of questions we would appreciate your cooperation on.”

“Arrest! Arrest! What are you on about? You can’t arrest me. Me! I’m Dominic Summerhayes. Do you have any idea of who I am?”

Whilst he was protesting, Summerhayes gradually edged his way around the desk and opened a drawer.

“Down, Ray,” yelled Bodie as Summerhayes’ hand started to come out of the drawer. Reacting with all the speed retained from their CI5 days, trusting Bodie’s instincts, Ray dived to his left and was hidden by the side of the large desk. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bodie execute a similar move, going right. Bodie’s instincts were still spot on as Summerhayes had a gun in his hand.

There was a pause as Summerhayes realised that the two targets were no longer visible. He backed towards the window as he tried to see where the two men had taken cover.

“Give it up, Summerhayes. You’re not getting out of here.” Bodie’s voice was firm. He edged along the front of the desk, trying to get an angle for a shot. Glancing to his left, he could see Ray crouched to one side, the top of his curls just visible above the desk. There was something not quite right though. Bodie waved his gun slightly, the movement catching Ray’s attention. A head shake was the response. Horrified Bodie realised that Ray wasn’t armed.

Bloody hell! Bodie had forgotten that as a serving police officer, Ray would be unarmed.

In the few seconds this realisation had taken, Summerhayes made his move. The sash window in the bay behind him was open to let in the early evening sea breeze so he fired his gun, not aiming at anyone in particular, just to keep heads down and he reached out to push the sash fully open. As he dived out of the window, Bodie jumped up and returned fire.

Summerhayes rolled as he landed and was on his feet, running away from the house as Bodie and Doyle reached the window.

“I’m going after him,” snapped Bodie. “Call the locals for back up.”

“I’m coming with you,” insisted Doyle.

“Not without a gun, you’re not.” Pushing Doyle to one side, Bodie followed Summerhayes.

Being out in the field was like old times but there was a gaping hole at his back where Doyle ought to be.

***** 

Doyle put down the telephone handset with a bang. Back up was on the way but it would be at least twenty to thirty minutes and the local officers would also be unarmed. The armed response unit was based in Dorchester and, though they would be contacted immediately, it would still take time to gather the officers together and then get out to the estate.

Going to the window, he looked out. Although it had only been a few minutes, there was no sign of either Bodie or Summerhayes. The obvious place to start looking was a small copse of trees about a hundred yards from the house.

One hand on the windowsill, he jumped agilely through the window and set off in the direction he hoped Bodie had gone.

He’d only trotted across five yards of pristine green grass when a gunshot echoed and his trot became a full gallop as he raced towards the cover offered by the trees. The sound of that one gunshot was still reverberating around the quiet valley as he skidded to a halt and leant back against a tree to get his bearings. Whilst the copse was relatively well cared for, there were plenty of bushes and undergrowth to use for camouflage. Taking a deep breath, Doyle set off in the direction from which he believed the shot had come.

Pausing every few seconds, Doyle tried to remember everything he had ever been taught or experienced about tracking through woodland. Bodie’s voice insinuated itself into his thoughts offering comparisons to treks through jungle and desert landscapes, which really wasn’t of any use in the English countryside. Doing his best to cut off the commentary, he concentrated on the noises around him. Though quiet, there were still the rustlings of small animals, the tweeting of birds as they started to settle for the night and, there, the sound of someone pushing aside branches. It wouldn’t be Bodie. Doyle knew how silently his ex-partner could move in this environment.

The sound of another shot turned him slightly to his left. Even though all his instincts urged him to run, to rescue Bodie, he stifled them and continued his slow but steady progress through the undergrowth.

A twig snapped loudly fairly close by and he froze. He couldn’t see anything but leaves and branches. Carefully he pulled the vegetation to one side to gain a clearer view of what might be in front of him. There was a small clearing, dappled in the late afternoon sun.

With the lighting effects and the trees and bushes obscuring his view, it took him a couple of seconds to spot a figure crouched on the other side. Bodie.

Just as he spotted his ex-partner, there was a slight movement to his left and then he could see Summerhayes aiming at Bodie. Knowing he couldn’t cross even the small distance between them before the trigger could be pulled, and having no weapon of his own, he did the next best thing and yelled.

“Bodie!”

As Summerhayes snapped off his shot, Bodie dropped to the ground. Unsure whether or not he’d been hit, Doyle made a mistake. Instead of moving the instant he shouted, he stayed where he was and was thus the perfect target as Summerhayes turned towards him.

*****

Even as he reacted to Doyle’s shout by throwing himself forward, Bodie twisted and saw Doyle fall. As he hit the ground, he fired two rounds and had the satisfaction of seeing Summerhayes drop to the ground, clutching his shoulder. Bodie got to his feet. Spitting out dirt and leaves, he ran across the clearing.

“Ray! Oh, bloody hell! Ray!” Despite his panic over the possible condition of the motionless body, he retained enough presence of mind to remove the gun from Summerhayes’ limp grasp, pushing him to his knees with the admonition “Stay put”. Whimpering in pain, it didn’t look as if the once elegant art connoisseur was going anywhere soon.

Hesitantly, Bodie approached the body. Facedown, Doyle looked like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Dropping to his knees, Bodie leant over and put two fingers to the pulse point in the neck. Nothing. Taking a steadying breath, he adjusted the positioning of his fingers and there it was: a regular thump, thump. As he crouched back on his haunches, Doyle moaned and started to move.

“Careful, Ray. Let me see where you were hit before you move.”

Lying still once more, Doyle allowed Bodie to gently examine him for exit wounds. Finding nothing, he helped Doyle turn over. Supporting him with an arm around broad shoulders, Bodie enjoyed the feel of the lithe figure in his arms once more as he continued his search for a wound. As he ran his hand across Doyle’s chest, he felt the flinch and Doyle started to shake. Before Bodie could panic, he realised that Doyle was giggling. A full throated, very definite giggle.

“Where are you hurt? Answer me, dammit! What’s so funny? ”

“You are.” Doyle pulled away slightly and put his finger through a bullet hole in his shirt almost exactly over his heart. “Is this what you’re looking for? Or are you just copping a feel?”

Bodie pushed him away slightly, grabbed the front of Doyle’s shirt and ripped it open. Instead of the bare, hairy and wounded chest he was expecting, there was the matt black of a bullet proof vest with a bullet embedded in the front.

“What the …?”

“Do you really think I’m stupid enough to go into the field, not only unarmed but totally unprotected? Give me a break, Bodie. I’ve learned something over the last twenty years.”

“Jeez, Doyle! I can’t decide whether I should thump you or hug you to death. You scared several years off my life.” Bodie realised his hands were shaking. As he went to pull away though, Doyle stopped him.

“I’m sorry I scared you, mate. Never thought to mention it. Never thought he’d pull a gun. It just doesn’t happen to a regular copper.”

“Should have known better then. We rarely got a job where we didn’t have to pull a gun.”

“But that was then. This is now. Everything’s changed.”

“Not everything, “ Bodie said quietly. “Your life is still precious to me.” Slowly he reached out and touched Doyle’s misshapen cheek bone. “Don’t ever want anything to happen to you, Ray. It’s been too close, too often.”

Before Doyle could respond, the evening quiet was broken by the sound of sirens.

“Looks like the cavalry is here, sunshine. D’you think we should secure the prisoner?”

They both looked across at Summerhayes, who hadn’t moved. Doyle produced a set of handcuffs from his jacket pocket and handed them to Bodie. “There you go.”


	18. Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Eighteen May 1992

After a quick stop at Dorchester police station so that the police doctor could examine Doyle’s bruised ribs and double check the field dressing on Summerhayes’ shoulder wound, they loaded their prisoner in the back of a Black Maria. The local force provided a driver and escort whilst Bodie and Doyle followed in the Capri, heading for Paddington nick.

Having booked Summerhayes on charges of assault with a deadly weapon, attempted murder and suspicion of a fraudulent insurance claim, they left him in a cell for an overnight stay at Her Majesty’s pleasure. At this stage they had no hard evidence, only a suspicion that he’d been involved in the murder of Sam Thorndike. 

The following day they were back to formally interview him.

Looking through the window in the interview room door, they saw a perfectly composed individual. Despite a night in a cell, Summerhayes was immaculate. He was sitting, apparently quite relaxed, on a plastic chair, examining his manicure.

“Looks as if butter wouldn’t melt, doesn’t he?” commented Bodie. He was to be present at the interview as a courtesy to MI5 from the Met. Officially he’d had no part in the investigation and arrest; though in reality it was he and his team who’d found most of the jigsaw puzzle. Looking at the prisoner now, Bodie wondered if they would make any progress at all.

“No one’s that innocent. As you well know, Bodie.” Opening the interview room door, Doyle gestured. “Shall we?”

“Why not?”

Together they confronted Summerhayes.

***** 

After the first couple of hours, it appeared that they were getting nowhere at all. Summerhayes remained cool, calm and collected. He simply reiterated that he had bought the painting legitimately and, as the owner, was within his rights to pay someone to alter it. He ignored all their questions about the insurance claim and the boat owner’s murder.

Taking a break, Bodie and Doyle considered their options over two steaming mugs of tea in the police canteen.

“So why would Mr Innocent suddenly flare up and pull a gun if all he’s done is arrange for a painting to be altered? We’ve no proof that he knew the painting was a forgery. And he knows that we have nothing concrete on him for the murder of Sam Thorndike.” Bodie voiced both their concerns. They had spent years, on and off, gathering evidence on various crimes, all with seemingly tenuous links to Summerhayes. But despite the mountain of information, none of it was sufficient to convict. Bodie continued, “I suppose it is possible that he is innocent.”

“Not a chance, mate.” Doyle slammed his mug down on the table, slopping hot liquid. “He’s as guilty as sin. I just don’t know of what. But I am going to find out. Let’s see if we can figure out what triggered the rage back at the house.”

***** 

Back in the interview room, Doyle took a slightly different tack. Instead of asking questions, he began to run through the various crimes, with which they believed Summerhayes was connected. Instead of stating the facts as they knew them, he skewed the telling slightly, emphasising the incompetence of the perpetrators and, in turn, of the instigator.

He watched as the studied nonchalance of the prisoner was replaced by small jerky hand movements, eye twitches and, on a couple of occasions, by him starting to speak then stopping before actually saying anything.

It was whilst Doyle was re-telling the Gatwick bullion robbery outcome that the suave mask finally slipped but it wasn’t anger that won the day, it was arrogance.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” snapped Summerhayes. “It was a perfectly logical thing to do. Those idiots couldn’t understand the sense of leaving the bullion in hiding. I knew that sooner or later they’d be tempted and, in attempting to spend it, they would get caught. Getting them out of the way was the ideal solution.”

“Not so ideal though when the bomb failed,” sneered Bodie, contributing to the discussion for the first time.

“It’s so difficult to get good help these days. I’m afraid I relied on a third party on this occasion and the results were very poor. Very poor indeed.”

Bodie was finding it difficult to keep his hands away from Summerhayes’s neck. The smug bastard was talking about an explosion that had killed a young policeman and nearly cost Doyle his life. But before he could act, Summerhayes continued.

“Though, I have to say, the actual robbery went very well. I planned the whole thing quite meticulously. Quite a different venture for me. Getting the information, finding the right team, even if they did prove to be a liability after the event. I even went along on that job. Wanted to see how long it would take to break the security guards. And they were quite pathetic. The mere threat was enough to have them blabbing.”

“Well, having petrol poured over you and someone threatening to light it would have that effect.” Doyle’s sarcasm, however, was lost on Summerhayes.

“That, my dear man, was the point. I came up with that idea. Quite ingenious I thought at the time.” His expression turned thoughtful. “It was somewhat disappointing not to carry out the threat though.”

Hiding his horror at the casual way in which Summerhayes talked about the possibility of setting fire to a human being, Doyle began to realise that the man was a psychopath with no guilt or remorse for what society perceived as crimes but which he seemed to view as experiments. What else would he confess to whilst in this talkative, boasting mood?

***** 

By the end of the day, both Bodie and Doyle were in shock at the amount of information and the number of crimes Summerhayes had quite casually told them about. However, he hadn’t confessed in a chronological order so it would take time to fit the pieces together once the tapes were transcribed.

It wasn’t until the very last confession that Doyle had lost his temper. If it hadn’t been for Bodie holding him back, he would have beaten Summerhayes to a pulp. But there were other stories told in that room, which added to the horror.

***** 

“I inherited the estate in Dorset from my maternal grandfather,” Summerhayes mused. “It was in no fit state to be lived in and, of course, there was no money. Dreadful old codger had spent it all in the traditional manner of the landed gentry: wine, women and song. How my grandmother found the means to support the family I never knew but I was determined to get the money to restore and improve it.” He paused, lost in the past. “I did Art History at university and made some good contacts whilst there. Cambridge, you know.”

“And where did that lead you?” Doyle queried.

“There is money to be made in art. As long as you know what you’re looking at. And don’t mind how you acquire it. That’s how I met Thorndike. He didn’t mind what he carried on the ‘Tipsy Wench’ so we went into partnership. It’s surprisingly easy to smuggle small sculptures, glassware, etchings and the like into small harbours like West Bay. Customs and Excise are far too busy looking for the big boys.

“I became quite the connoisseur and people started to come to me to find them just the right piece. At just the right price. I made a lot of money but it was boring. So Thorndike and I found a very lucrative side-line. Guns. And we were just as successful. But he got greedy. Brought in an extra load. Just when he knew Customs were getting suspicious. That’s when I knew I had to dissolve the partnership.”

Summerhayes stared at his hands.

“You know murder is remarkably easy. It’s not getting caught that is the real challenge. But one thing inevitably leads to another and, before you know it, there’s a whole chain of events linking back to you. Thorndike was the first person I killed but he wasn’t the last. And they’re all links in a chain.” He sighed, gathering his thoughts, before continuing seemingly at a complete tangent.

“I recognised Shona’s talent the first time I met her. She had a couple of small pieces in an exhibition hosted by Tony Liddle. I believe you knew him, Superintendent Doyle. A most perspicacious man. He was always willing to showcase new talent and Shona was one of his new finds. I was sorry that I had to kill Tony but he’d found the harbour painting and I simply could not allow it to be in anyone’s hands except my own. Tony knew Shona’s work and would have immediately recognised that the painting had been altered.”

“He obviously did, which is why he rang me to say he’d found it but didn’t say exactly what he’d found.” Doyle added. “He was so pleased with himself that he wouldn’t tell me over the phone that it was a fake.”

“That was good news for me. He told me he’d called you. I had enormous fun getting the information out of him. It’s fascinating what one human being can do to another and feel nothing but enormous satisfaction for a job well done. Not that it took a great deal of effort. A very clever man, Tony, but not a strong one.”

Holding back on a much sharper comment as he listened to Summerhayes speak so casually of torturing a man to death, Doyle asked instead, “What did you do with the painting?”

“Well … I knew I couldn’t reclaim it publicly. Tony had blabbed to you and to the insurance company so it had to disappear again. It was the insurance agent who rang me to say it had been found. Not very discreet of him but very useful for me. Anyway it was easy enough to just walk out of the gallery with it. No one turned a hair to see a well-dressed man leaving an art gallery carrying a painting.”

“Yeah, even with the publicity after the murder was discovered, it would be such a mundane thing for that part of London that no one ever thought to mention it,” Doyle answered part of his own question. “So you hid it?”

“In a variety of places but eventually in a lock up garage where I stored various items that were too hot to move or to sell.”

“And where we found it,” Bodie commented.

“Indeed, yes. Though quite why MI5 were searching such premises quite defeats me.” Summerhayes raised a languid eyebrow but elicited no information from Bodie. As if the silence were prompt enough, he continued his reminiscences. It seemed as if once he had started the process of confession, he had no desire to stop. Whether or not it was good for his soul remained to be seen.

“After that first meeting with Shona Pierce, she introduced me to Simon. Amazingly personable for a lawyer and a politician. I invited them down to Dorset for a weekend and, in return, they invited me to a pre-Christmas drinks reception. That’s where I first saw the harbour painting. Not only a magnificent piece of art but she’d recorded me and Thorndike on the ‘Tipsy Wench’. Oh it may not have been immediately obvious but sooner or later those threads leading from his death would have led to me. And I simply couldn’t have that. I wanted that painting and offered them a great deal of money for it. Stupidly they refused.”

“They could hardly be expected to know to what lengths you would go to get possession.” Doyle’s expression was tight with disgust as he listened to this man.

“Very true, Mr Doyle, very true. And that was to my advantage. They had another smaller reception on Boxing Day to which I was also invited. It was so very easy to remain behind when the others departed late in the afternoon. The McAllisters had no idea that I was still in the house. The family just went about the normal things, getting the children their supper and to bed and I managed to slip a handy little drug into their glasses towards the end of the evening, which made them terribly compliant. Then I simply walked into their bedroom. Shona was already in bed. She seemed frozen in place. Shock, I suppose, along with the drug. I simply turned and shot her. Simon came through from the en suite at the sound of the shot. But he didn’t confront me which allowed me to get close to him so that I could position the gun. Made it look like a murder/suicide. It was all so very easy.”

“And the children?” This too from Doyle, tight lipped with anger.

“The boy came in to see what the noise was. He was still half asleep, coming into his parent’s bedroom, with no notion that there was any danger. I couldn’t leave a witness.”

“And the baby?”

Summerhayes seemed to be totally oblivious to the wave of rage coming off Doyle as he shrugged. “It didn’t seem fair to let the baby live. He would have grown up knowing that his whole family had been killed. This way he was with them.”

Even Bodie was shocked at how matter of fact Summerhayes was in describing the events of that night. Glancing across at Ray, he could see the tension palpably shimmering off him. But he knew Doyle would hold it together. The more Summerhayes talked, the more he was condemning himself. But the man didn’t seem to care. He obviously felt no remorse for his actions. Indeed he seemed to be enjoying the chance to boast of just how clever he’d been.

“I posed the bodies to make it look like a murder/suicide and that took quite a while. I had to get it right. Unfortunately some nosey parker reported hearing shots so I had to leave before I could acquire the painting. I was finally able to buy it when it came up for auction. That reminds me. I did so enjoy disposing of Wally Peterson. He was a most disreputable member of the art world. Although I dealt with some of the dregs of society, almost a necessity given my side-line, I found him a most distasteful individual.”

“Why did he have to die?” asked Doyle. “He merely sold the painting as part of the disposition of the McAllister’s estate.”

“I can’t quite put my finger on it. I simply disliked him. But later I discovered that he’d also had the photographs Shona had taken of the harbour whilst working on the painting. And they were possibly even more incriminating so I tracked down Jerry Blake, only to find he’d already handed the photos over to the police. Of course, what I didn’t know then, was that Jerry had moved on from Wally Peterson to Tariq Akbar. Another individual I never warmed to. Who would ever have believed that a world class assassin would be genuinely in love with a little tart like Jerry Blake?”

Summerhayes shook his head in disbelief before continuing.

“Well, I think that’s about it. I tried to cover my tracks but it would seem that I ended up making more. And you two were most persistent. Most persistent. Oh, well, I learned a lot about human beings and their tolerance for pain or rather their lack of tolerance. I wonder if I should publish my findings.”

“It will keep you occupied whilst you’re detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure.” Bodie brought Summerhayes’ attention back to his current situation.

“Ah, yes, I do seem to have got myself into a bit of a predicament. Nothing a good solicitor can’t deal with, I would have thought.”

“Oh, I think you’ll find your confession, along with the evidence we’ve gathered, will be more than enough to defeat the most dedicated brief.” Doyle started to stand but was halted by an abrupt gesture from Summerhayes.

“I haven’t quite finished, gentlemen. I’ve just remembered that sneaky little man, Jimmy Doolan. He stuck his beak where it wasn’t wanted once too often. So I dealt with him quite neatly. I’d just taken delivery of a very fine batch of heroin. Oh, didn’t I mention that I arranged a number of drug shipments for John Coogan. There was another silly man. Too quick with his fists and not with his brains.”

“Right, I think we’ve finished here.” Bodie gathered up the folders and leaned across the table to turn off the recorder. Summerhayes’ voice stopped him.

“I do have one last thing to tell you. You really shouldn’t have done the Sunday newspaper spread, Superintendent Doyle. It allowed me to put a face to the name that had been haunting my endeavours for so long. I hadn’t equated the visit of two CI5 men to my Dorset estate all those years ago with the diligent Metropolitan policeman. And your lovely wife, Megan, was featured too.”

“What about Megan?” Doyle’s knuckles turned white from the pressure he was exerting as he gripped the desk to prevent himself from leaning over and grabbing Summerhayes.

“It was so very easy to get someone to place that little bomb.”

“How did you know she was going to be there? It was a last minute decision by her friend.”

“That’s where hiring the best really proves worthwhile. I told him what I wanted and gave him the bomb. I gave him your wife’s name and he followed her for several days. When they entered the furriers on their shopping expedition, he knew it was a perfect opportunity and that the blame could be easily diverted to those silly animal rights activists. Of course, I didn’t want to kill your wife. She looked a lovely woman. It would have been much more satisfying to watch her, and you, suffer through long years of pain. But, sometimes, we have to accept that things don’t always go the way we want them to.”

As Summerhayes leant back in the chair, his expression smug, Bodie grabbed Doyle.

The young policeman, assigned to observe the interview, watched in amazement as the dark haired man practically carried Superintendent Doyle out of the interview room. Remembering his responsibility, he turned his gaze back to the nonchalant man on the other side of the table.

Summerhayes was smiling.


	19. Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Nineteen February to May 1993

On the day that Dominic Summerhayes was sentenced to spend the rest of his natural life in a secure mental unit, Superintendent Raymond Doyle handed in his resignation. Although there were other cases as memorable, particularly those from his CI5 days, this one had haunted him for ten years. Somehow it felt right that at its conclusion, he brought about an ending of his own.

He still had his notice to serve but the time would be spent clearing the paperwork and handing over current case files. He wanted to make sure his team was well looked after and he recommended promotions and moves for several of them.

He’d thought long and hard about what to do next. He was still a relatively young man and he certainly wasn’t in a position, financially, to actually retire. He also wanted to put to good use the life insurance money he’d received after Megan’s death so when Peter Attwood approached him with the opportunity to buy into his security and training company he’d decided this was the way forward. As a partner in Professional Security Resources he would have the chance to put to good use all his experience plus he would be responsible for 50% of the company’s operation.

The company provided training packages covering tactical, operational and strategic activities to meet law enforcement and national security requirements. They aimed to help their students survive in those difficult and, sometimes, dangerous situations by offering an outstanding level of training based on real-life scenarios. Working with specialist manufacturers, they provided the realism of live fire training without the lethal impact of real ammunition. The company already had a team of fully trained instructors from military and law enforcement backgrounds who had the right skills and experience to pass on. The company had a reputation for providing the most up to date training methods, drills and tactics.

Peter Attwood was always on the lookout for the right fit for his organisation and Ray Doyle suited the profile perfectly.

He told Bodie of his decision when they met up for a drink the evening after Summerhayes was sentenced. Unusually, Bodie seemed to have nothing to say.

“What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?” Doyle teased, trying to ease the sudden tension he felt between them. Although they no longer worked together, with the conclusion of the Summerhayes’s case there was no longer an excuse, they had continued to meet on a semi-regular basis for drinks or dinner. And Doyle made sure to visit the twins regularly, taking his godfather role very seriously.

A minute or two of silence passed before Bodie responded.

“I guess I must be turning into a stick-in-the-mud. I never imagined you leaving the Met. You’ve always loved law enforcement. So why the change of direction?”

“I just started to feel restless. These last few months haven’t been as fulfilling and I realised that I’d really reached the end of this particular road. I wanted … no, I needed to do something different. The only question was what.”

“But how different is private security? It’s the same old routine but on Civvy Street and without the legal protections of working for the government.”

“Now, that’s where you’re wrong. The company doesn’t just do security, body guarding and the like. They also do a lot of training for both individuals and corporations as well as some military. There’s also an investigation side …”

“A private detective! You! Magnum PI you’re not.”

Doyle laughed, a full throated appreciation of his friend’s sense of humour.

“Can’t see me in a Hawaiian shirt and all that sunshine, can you?”

“Oh I don’t know. You’d look good in the shades and the Ferrari.”

“Seriously though. PSR does fraud investigations and the like. No divorce work. Nothing seedy. I did my own checks when Peter approached me. I remembered him from when I first joined CI5. He was invalided out a few months later. I wanted to make sure he was still on the up and up. No doubt about it. He’s running a very successful business and he wanted me as a partner.”

“He’s lucky to get you, mate.”

“And it’s a good investment for me. I couldn’t bring myself to spend Megan’s life insurance so this seemed like a good solution.” He swallowed, a hard lump suddenly in his throat at the memory of his dead wife, and looked down.

A large, warm hand covered his where it rested on the pub table. He looked up to meet warm, blue eyes, which stared at him for a minute before glancing away as if in embarrassment. Bodie tried to move his hand away, as if regretting the impulse, but Doyle turned his own hand and held fast.

“Thanks, Bodie. I really appreciate your support.”

And in the middle of a crowded London pub, two men held hands.

***** 

Watching Bodie watching Ray Doyle playing football with two boisterous five and a half year olds, Sophie realised that the time had come for decisions. Bodie was supposed to be washing up the lunch dishes but he was leaning on the sink staring out of the window.

“Foul!” Ray’s shout was drowned in squeals from the boys as they brought their godfather down. The three would-be footballers rolled around on the grass, the ball forgotten, laughter echoing.

Bodie’s expression was wistful as he watched the rough and tumble. Realising that he was being watched, he turned to see Sophie standing in the kitchen doorway. He gave her a tired smile.

“We need to talk,” she said.

*****

When the boys were in bed and Ray Doyle had returned home, Bodie and Sophie sat in the lounge. There was an open bottle of wine on the coffee table, glasses poured but not touched.

“Go on, love. This is your show.” Bodie did not want to have this conversation but it was both inevitable and necessary.

“I watched you today. Watching Ray. You love him very much.”

The simple statement devastated Bodie. He didn’t know how to respond. Sophie deserved his honesty but he wasn’t sure he could offer it. He’d attended counselling sessions for a couple of months and had been surprised at the techniques used. He’d expected a Ross-type interrogation. Instead he’d been encouraged, by gentle questions and statements, to talk and to think about his feelings. The counsellor had even suggested keeping a diary; not of events and happenings but of his thoughts and emotions on any topic whatsoever. And he’d started to do so, surprising himself at what he put on the page.

Whilst many people considered him to be an unfeeling man that simply wasn’t the case. Bodie felt things deeply but too much outward emotion scared him for unknown reasons. So he retreated from emotional displays, a trait which had stood him in good stead all his working life but was proving a major barrier to sorting out his private.

Seeing the shuttered look on his face, knowing him well, Sophie knew she would have to winkle the truth out of him. Reaching across the sofa, she clasped one of his hands.

“Take your time, Will. You know we need to have this conversation. And no time will ever be the right time so it might as well be now.”

Gripping Sophie’s hand tightly, Bodie nodded. “I know you’re right. But I’m not sure I have the right words.”

“Then use the wrong ones. We’ll sort them out as we go along.”

That garnered a faint smile and with an almost visible gathering together of his thoughts, Bodie began.

“I do love Ray … very much. But I also love you and the boys. Going to counselling got me thinking about everything instead of pushing the impossible to one side or burying it so deep it would never be found. I’ve discovered things about myself that even I wasn’t consciously aware of.”

Squeezing his hand gently, Sophie encouraged. “Go on.”

“Ray and I were partners in CI5 … but you knew that. I told you as much as I could about those years when we met. What I didn’t, or couldn’t, tell you was that we were also lovers for two of those years.”

He stopped. Choked. Tears filled his eyes, threatened to fall.

“Then came The Falklands. I still need to work through everything that happened there though I don’t think I’ll ever be able to tell you it all. The counsellor thinks I have PTSD.”

“What’s that?”

“Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. A fancy phrase for shell shock or battle fatigue. Apparently it’s quite common. Coupled with my own reticent nature … yeah, I know I’m not known for being shy and quiet but I do suppress and this PTSD can cause an inability to communicate. Not a good combination.”

“What happened with you and Ray?” Sophie questioned. 

Bodie shrugged. “I screwed up. I returned from The Falklands and I told him I couldn’t go on.”

“But you continued to work together? You’re still friends?”

“More Ray’s doing than mine. And Cowley’s. There was no way he was going to split his top team. Made it very clear that any problems we had were to be kept out of our working lives. And Ray’s a stubborn bugger. I don’t know if he thought we would get back together if we carried on working and seeing each other as friends. He never said. But I knew that couldn’t go on. That’s when I met you. I used you to shore up my emotional barricades.”

He took a deep breath. “I’m so very, very sorry.”

Bodie buried his face in his hands but Sophie wouldn’t let him hide. Gently she pulled his hands away.

“Don’t be sorry. I love you, Will. I married you knowing that there was something haunting you. I accepted what you were able to offer me. And I have been very, very happy.”

“Truly?” Bodie’s disbelief was obvious. He was beginning to realise that he really didn’t know his wife very well at all. Holding on to Sophie’s hands gave him the courage to continue.

“I think I finally know what I want. But though I love Ray, I love you too. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“The first step is deciding what you want. I’ve told you before; I just want you to be happy. And though you’ve been content with me, you haven’t been happy. And I love you enough to let you go if that is what you need.”

Bodie stared at her as if he’d never seen her before. “Who are you Sophie Bodie? No one has ever been so generous to me.”

“I’m the woman who loves you, Will Bodie. And I’m not being generous, I’m being very selfish but I know that I will never be the one to make you happy. But I can set you free. I don’t want to hold on to half a man. I only have to see you with Ray, to see you watching him, to know that I can’t ever have all of you. And I won’t settle for less. If I thought there was any chance at all, I would fight tooth and nail to keep you. But I’m not stupid, Will. This way I let you go and you will come back from time to time. You’re not one to shirk your duty. And if that’s all I can have then it will have to be enough.” She swallowed hard. Trying to remain calm was proving quite an effort.

“So where do we go from here?”

“I think you need to talk to Ray. But you need to be free to approach him.” She paused, then took a shaky breath before continuing. “I don’t think he would be happy to be the reason why our marriage has broken down so we should get divorce proceedings under way and sort out all the practicalities first”. 

Bodie’s eyes glittered with tears.

“Whatever did I do to deserve you? I was expecting tears and recriminations.”

“And they wouldn’t have made an ounce of difference other than to send you scurrying into a hole somewhere.”

“I do not scurry.” A faint smile appeared.

“Metaphorically speaking.” Sophie also smiled.

“And what about you and the boys? I’ll make sure you’re okay financially. And I’ll be here for you.” Bodie was almost gabbling. The relief he felt that Sophie understood and was making things easy for him was almost palpable.

“I know you will. I’ve never had any doubts on that score. We’ll be fine. It’ll be much better for the boys to have a committed, happy but part-time father.”

“And you, Sophie?”

She smiled sadly. “I’ll cope. If there is one thing I’ve learned, it’s that you can’t hold on to people and both be happy if the other person doesn’t want to stay. And you don’t, do you?”

Bodie paused but his answer was inevitable.

“No. I don’t.”

Seeing the relief on Bodie’s face as he realised that she was making things amazingly easy for him cut Sophie to the quick but she hid behind the calm façade she’d maintained throughout the conversation.

But as the living room door closed behind Bodie that façade collapsed. Giving a small, strangled sob, she dropped back onto the sofa. Burying her face in her hands, she let the tears flow.

******

As the living room door closed behind him, Bodie stood for a moment in the hallway. He heard Sophie’s sobs and started to turn. Then stopped. The hand that had reached out to the door knob was shaking. He stared at it in disbelief. He brought his other hand across and grasped his trembling fingers. It didn’t stop. Instead it got worse as he could now see both hands shaking.

He backed away from the door. He could still hear Sophie’s now more subdued sobs but he couldn’t return to the room. At the moment, he had no comfort to offer. His backward movement came to a sudden halt as his ankles banged into the stairs. He sat down with a bump and buried his head in his still twitching hands.

Although he’d never been in love with Sophie, he had married her with every intention of being a good husband. And he believed that he had been. And a good father. But now he was torn as he knew that he was still in love with Ray Doyle.

He was a hard man but now he was broken. He hadn’t been broken since … no, he wouldn’t think about the Falklands and its aftermath. He couldn’t. But he could do what Sophie suggested and get help.

*****

Even given the relaxation in the divorce laws, it was still potentially a long process. Since neither Sophie nor Bodie wanted to wait five, or even two, years, he provided the evidence of his ‘adultery’. Given Bodie’s occupation in the heart of Britain’s Secret Service, it was relatively easy to manufacture a situation, record it and help push the proceedings through as quickly as possible.

The house was signed over to Sophie; the mortgage having been paid off the previous year when a distant cousin left her a reasonable amount of money. Bodie also agreed, very readily, to the court arrangements for joint custody of the boys, with them living with their mother and he being able to see then whenever he wanted. Maintenance payments were also agreed. So, all in all, it was as smooth a transition as was possible.

On the day the Decree Absolute came through, Bodie rang Doyle. Instead of suggesting they meet for a drink, he asked to come round to the flat. Doyle’s response was prompt.

“Come round about eight. I’ll cook.”

*****

Dinner was eaten, dishes washed, beers in hand and they were ensconced in the living room when Doyle spoke.

“Okay. What’s up?”

Bodie gave a little guilty start. He’d been brooding over his beer can and wondering how on earth he was ever going to tell Doyle what a total, absolute prat he’d been eleven years before.

“Come on, Bodie. You’ve been building up to something all evening. Out with it.”

Taking a deep breath, Bodie started at the end.

“Sophie and me … our divorce became final today.”

“What the hell! When did that happen?” Doyle’s shock reverberated in his voice. Although he’d known that Bodie wanted to talk about something, he’d had no idea it was so serious.

Bodie’s voice was subdued. He’d always found it difficult to talk about personal matters but he knew that the only way he could hope to retrieve lost ground was by being as honest and open as he possibly could be.

“We decided it was the best thing for us, for the boys.”

“There’s more to it than that, isn’t there,” said Doyle intuitively.

“Yeah. She worked out that I was in love with someone else and that our marriage was never going to work.”

Doyle couldn’t believe what he was hearing. After all this time, Bodie had met someone else.

“Who? Who is it?” he couldn’t resist asking.

Bodie gave a brief snort of laughter.

“You. It’s you, you berk!”

They stared at each other.

***** 

“So what happened?”

They were sitting side by side on the sofa but with at least six inches of space between them.

“I told you. Sophie and I …”

“No, no. In 1982. What happened in 1982?”

This was the moment Bodie knew would come. Once he’d started down this road, he knew he’d have to finish. It was time to go back to the beginning.


	20. Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty May to June 1982

Stepping out of a small rubber boat into the icy waters of the South Atlantic in the middle of the night was one of the scariest things Bodie had ever done. Despite the clear sky and the bright pinpricks of stars, it was still very dark. There were no lights from land or sea to light his way, which, when he thought about it, made him very grateful. It just wouldn’t do to get shot by an Argentinian patrol as he was landing.

Dripping sea water from the thighs down, he made his way up the gently sloping beach and into the dunes. His approach disturbed several penguins but, fortunately, they decided he was no threat and settled again quite quickly.

Dropping to his knees, he glanced back. There was a black smudge about 100 yards from the shore, which might be his transport. There was a bigger smudge further out, which was definitely the submarine, leaving now that it had conveyed him from the rendezvous to this drop-off point. Once the dinghy was back on board, the sub would be moving down the coast to drop off another special services operative or even a team. The British task force was getting closer and closer to the Islands and needed on the ground information.

He thought back over the last few weeks. Ever since his recall to the SAS, he’d known that he would end up here. The shores of home. After several days of briefings whilst the task force was assembled, he’d shipped out aboard the Canberra, arriving at Ascension Island on 20 April. He was then transferred to the submarine for the final stage of the journey. He didn’t like submarines and it had been a relief to clamber into that small, rubber boat.

Now, however, he was alone on the south coast of East Falkland. Whilst the British fleet was heading for San Carlos Bay in the north west, he’d suggested this small cove as a reasonable place to come ashore covertly.

Stripping off the wetsuit, he shivered in the pre-dawn chill. Whilst May at home was gradually easing into summer, the Falkland Islands were moving rapidly into winter. There was already snow on the hills. He dragged clothes out of the backpack and clambered into them.

Taking a small, collapsible shovel out of the pack, he quickly dug a hole in the lee of a dune and pushed the wetsuit into it. Covering it up took mere minutes. It was highly unlikely that Argentinian troops would ever come along this beach but it was better to be safe than sorry so he pulled one of the loosely rooted scrub bushes over the disturbed sand.

Standing, he shouldered the rucksack, took his bearings and set off across Camp as the countryside outside the settlements was known. He reckoned it would take him four or five nights to make his way through the scrubby terrain to Stanley. Despite having spent his early childhood on the Islands, it had been a long time since he’d taken a cross-country trek on quite this scale. He hoped his SAS and CI5 training was up to it.

***** 

Peering down on Port Stanley from one of the many surrounding hills, Bodie studied the changes wrought on the tiny community. Although he’d left the Islands at age eleven to attend grammar school in England, he’d returned regularly, or as regularly as his time and finances had allowed. His last trip had been seven years previously at the end of his tour with the SAS, just before joining CI5 and the town had remained much as he remembered it from his childhood. A visit to Stanley had always evoked the excitement in the farm children, offering a different environment though, truth be told, there was nothing exciting about the town.

Now he could see the changes brought about by the Argentinian occupation. Although they had only been on the Islands for a few weeks, they had had quite an impact. There were gun emplacements at strategic points; the Argentinian flag flew in front of Government House; there were dugouts surrounded by sand bags for infantry and there were troop carriers parked here and there.

Ranging the small field glasses, he picked out familiar landmarks: there the police station, there the hotel, there the general store. He could see people moving around, going about their daily business but he did notice that several times people moved to the other side of the road to avoid enemy troops. All in all though, it seemed fairly quiet.

Earlier, he’d checked out the airport and had seen the damage already inflicted by British bombs.

He’d been chosen for this mission as he was native to these Islands and was assumed to know the layout of the settlements and Camp well enough to be able to report on changes as well as Argentinian troop dispositions. There were other special ops groups scattered across the Islands but his specific task was to make contact with the locals and to gather their information.

Having watched the small settlement for an hour or so, he decided it was time to move. Shuffling back from the brow of the hill, he opened his pack. The waterproof rucksack contained a plethora of items that he and his mission commander had deemed essential for the task. He’d already checked in via the 2-way radio so he pushed it down into the pack underneath the clothing and pulled out a dirty old anorak. Swapping it for the army-issue parka, he began to look more like an islander. He also found a hand-knitted cap, which he pulled on, fitting it snugly over his ears.

Finding another scrubby bush was easy and the pack slid out of sight amongst the exposed roots. Sorted, he began to make his way down towards the town.

***** 

Now re-named Puerto Argentino, Stanley was just a tin hut town 8,000 miles from home. The housing styles were decidedly English but it was laid out as a grid of streets, which was most unlike the home country. Some houses were roofed in tin and these were painted in bright colours. Government House was a rambling but charming complex of timber and stone, which had evolved with lean-tos and other additions over the 140 years since the first stone had been laid. Now it had an Argentinian flag flying from the pole in the front garden.

Making his way down into the town was easy. No one seemed to be paying attention to one scruffy-looking man. However, as he turned a corner, his attention was distracted for a second by an Argentinian troop carrier rolling into town and he found himself brought to a sudden halt.

The man caught his arm, exclaiming, “Bill Bodie! What on earth are you doing here?”

Hearing his name in the middle of what was, essentially, enemy territory, sent a shiver down Bodie’s spine but, focussing on the man still holding his arm, he realised that he knew him.

“Anton Livermore.”

The two men started at each other in mutual shock until the sound of a vehicle gunning its engine recalled them to their situation.

“It’s not safe to be seen talking on the street. Come on. The Upland Goose still serves a decent pint.”

Not knowing what else to do, Bodie followed.

***** 

The Upland Goose on Stanley’s sea front had been the social centre of the town for decades. Everyone called in there for a drink and a gossip on any visit to the port. Even mid-morning there were people sitting around enjoying a pint but Anton steered Bodie to a table at the rear where they were unlikely to be overheard. 

Bodie watched carefully as his companion went to order drinks. No one seemed to be paying much attention to him though he’d felt eyes on him when he’d entered the bar. Though he believed most Islanders to be loyal to the Crown, he couldn’t be 100% certain as there had been close links with Argentina over the years.

Anton returned to the table and they both huddled close together to cut down the even faint possibility of being overheard.

“It’s okay to talk in here, Bill, even though the Argies have taken over half the hotel. They tend not to come in unless they’re searching for someone.”

“Does that happen often?”

“For all they claim that we’re all Argentinian now, they’re paranoid about spying. They sweep continually for radio signals even though they’ve confiscated all the 2-ways.”

“All?”

“Well … all they could find or were offered up. There’s no way we’re giving in to them and anything we can do to disrupt things we’re doing.”

“And you, Anton? The last time I saw you, you were still at school?”

“I was the local constable. When the Argies invaded, most of the guys pulled out of the job, not wanting to have the contact but there needed to be one of the islanders in a position to assist. To defuse any potentially serious clashes. So I ran a bit of interference now and again. Then they brought in a right bastard, Major Patricio Dowling. An intelligence officer, totally convinced that we’re all up to something. Fortunately I had the ear of Bloomer Reeve and Barry Hussey, the two main Argentinians so they managed to get him to back off a bit. But it became a difficult role to maintain. I didn’t want to be charged with collaboration so I resigned a couple of days ago.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“Nowhere near as much as the trouble you’re in if you get caught. Why are you here, Bill?”

“Reconnaissance. Made sense to use a local, even one who’s not been around much lately. I certainly have more on the ground knowledge than any of the Argies. But I’ve got to keep moving. Anything I need to know about Stanley?”

“You’ve probably seen everything there is. There’ve been a couple of strikes against the airport already. We’re trying to keep everyone calm. We’ve a plan for keeping civilians as safe as possible when the time comes. I don’t suppose you’ve any idea when that might be?”

“Not a clue, mate! They don’t tell the likes of me their plans. But I reckon you’ll know soon enough.”

“You should come to the FIDF meeting this evening. Talk to the others. Get all the information you can.” Livermore was eager to impress upon Bodie that he should talk to more locals.

“Okay. Tell me where and when. I’ll slip back into town in time for the meeting.”

“We usually meet around 6. It’s at Terry Peck’s house this evening. We just slip in as quickly and as quietly as possible. Don’t want to attract the wrong sort of attention.”

Deciding that he’d spent more than enough time in the company of the young ex-constable and, having noted several curious glances from the hotel’s patrons, Bodie took his leave. A quick handshake. A “good luck” from both sides. And he was on his way.

As Livermore was leaving the hotel, one of the curious asked, “Wasn’t that Bill Bodie you were with?”

He returned a blank stare. “Don’t know who you’re talking about,” he responded before leaving the hotel to resume his patrol. He would report the encounter to FIDF (Falkland Islands Defence Force) later in the day and let them know to expect a visitor.

***** 

Bodie stayed hidden for the rest of the day. No one came anywhere near his hidey-hole. Field rations satisfied his hunger if not the inner man. Whilst water was plentiful on the islands, food was less so as most of the wildlife was inedible unless you were really desperate. He also didn’t want to slaughter a sheep unless he really had to as the carcass would be harder to hide.

He had slipped back into Stanley and met up with the locals as suggested by Anton Livermore. Now, back in his hideout, he used the 2-way to report all that he’d been told.

By twilight, he’d changed back into the camouflage parka and was heading back out into Camp.

It was slow going, over rough ground, with no light other than the stars but he didn’t dare risk a torch. It was 35 miles as the crow flies to his destination but his route bore no relation to a crow’s flight, meandering as it did across streams and hillocks. 

Eventually, as the sky began to lighten with the dawn, Bodie found a reasonably sheltered hollow, lined it with rough branches and covered it with the waterproof sleeping bag which had been attached to the bottom of the rucksack. Crawling in, he settled down. He’d never had trouble falling asleep wherever he was or whatever the situation. This time was no different. Within minutes, he was sound asleep.

He awoke in late afternoon. Listening, he established that there was no one around before crawling out of his bivouac. Breakfast, or dinner, depending on how you viewed his upside down day, was another selection from the field rations.

He completed a series of stretches to work the kinks out before setting off again.

***** 

Goose Green was the second largest settlement on the Falkland Islands, consisting of the usual mix of wooden and stone houses with brightly painted tin rooves. It had taken him three nights to work his way across country. In the darkness and the monotonously featureless terrain of the Falklands, it was all too easy to get lost so he had taken his time. Now, having once more found a reasonably secure vantage point, Bodie watched.

After a minute or two, he realised what was wrong. He couldn’t see a single Islander. There were plenty of Argentinian troops all over the village, distinctive in their green uniforms, but no one else.

The settlement was surrounded by flat land, which provided ideal grass runways, and was situated near to the centre of the Islands. A base there could command a wide expanse of land and sea and it was obvious that the Argentinians were well aware of that fact. On the far side of the town he could see a number of helicopters and lots of activity.

Scanning closer to his position, his attention focussed on the community hall. There was an Argentinian soldier standing outside every window and two by the doors. Whatever they were guarding must be important to them, which meant it became important to Bodie. He’d have to get down there, get inside and then report back.

Moving vantage point several times during the day, Bodie made careful note of the Argentinian troop movements. The guards on the community hall changed at 5pm so he waited several hours for the new ones to get bored before attempting to approach the building. The area around the hall was quite open, offering little in the way of cover so he opted to belly crawl, stopping every few feet and not approaching the hall in a straight line. He took advantage of every dip in the landscape and with the help of the encroaching darkness, he finally came to rest a few yards from the guards by the main door.

Both guards were shuffling their feet and flapping their arms to keep warm. But they were also checking out their surroundings every few minutes. Bodie could see no way to get passed them.

Just as he was about to move again to try to find a way in through one of the windows, he heard a soft ‘whump’, ‘whump’, followed seconds later by an explosion on the other side of town. The guards jabbered something in Spanish then took off in the opposite direction.

Taking advantage of the Royal Navy’s timely intervention, Bodie was on his feet, running for the hall doors. Pushing the door open, he stumbled inside. As he pulled the door closed behind him, he turned and trod on something soft. Stepping back, he leant on the door, whilst his heart hammered.

There was very little light. Goose Green didn’t run to street lights and the stars had yet to come out being early evening. Deciding to risk it, he took out his torch, flicking it on and, almost immediately, off again.

But what he saw in that brief flash of light seared across this brain.

Bodies! The hall was filled with bodies.

Still absorbing the horror of what he’d seen, his heart went into overdrive as something clasped at his ankle.

“Easy, laddie.”

Looking down, he saw that the softness he’d trodden on was, in fact, an elderly man, who’d been sleeping across the entrance to the hall. Taking a breath, Bodie listened. He could hear snuffling and shuffling. Bodies, yes. But very much alive.

Crouching, he put his face close to the old man’s so that he could whisper and be heard.

“What’s going on?”

The old man rolled over and struggled to his feet, being careful not to disturb his neighbour.  
Bodie put out a hand to assist as he rose easily to his full height.

“Come with me. We can talk through here.”

Stepping carefully over a couple of still sleeping Islanders, he led the way through a door off the small lobby. Bodie knew it led to the toilets, having attended lots of social events in this hall during his childhood. But, even if he hadn’t known where the door led, the smell would have told him. The stink hit him as he followed the old man into the tiny room.

Swallowing hard, Bodie shut the door and faced the old man. The room was even darker than the lobby, having only tiny windows, set high up on one wall. Reaching round Bodie, the man flicked the light switch and the room was flooded with light.

“Hey!” Bodie twisted to turn it off again but a hand on his arm stopped him.

“It’s okay. We blacked out the windows. It’s useful to have a place where we can talk at night.” The man stared at Bodie, his brow wrinkling. “I know you. Yes, you’re William Bodie’s lad. What’re you doing here?”

In the full light, Bodie also recognised his companion. “I’m with the task force, Mr McLeod. Scouting ahead. Local knowledge coming in useful. But what’s going on here?”

“A couple of days ago, they decided we were feeding information to the Brits so they rounded us all up and shut us in here. One hundred and fifteen men, women and children.”

“And were you? Feeding info?”

Colin McLeod winked. “What d’you think?”

Bodie grinned. It seemed the Islanders’ determination to remain British was undimmed by the enemy occupation.

“So … is there anything I can do for you?” Bodie asked.

“Nay, lad. It’s too dangerous for you to stay here. The Argies are convinced that we’re still transmitting radio messages so they carry out spot searches. No one escapes. Not even young Matthew McMullen. All of four months old. They even check his nappy. We keep hoping he’ll have a special surprise them for them.”

Both men shared a brief laugh before McLeod continued.

“We’ve come to an arrangement now so that we can get supplies. With care, we can eke them out. As you’ve probably noticed, the drains aren’t coping well but we’ve a couple of men keeping them flowing. Everyone is coping. Just make just the task force knows we’re here. The Argies have dug in and the guards protect themselves when the bombardment starts. We’ve improvised.”

“How?” Bodie remembered the lack of facilities in the hall.

“Pulled up the floorboards and dug down. It’s not going to protect from a direct hit but if helps morale if people think they’ve got some protection.”

“Okay. Well, I’ll relay the information.”

“Go on. Get out of here, lad. And don’t get caught.”

“I’ll do my best.” Bodie grinned.

“Aye. I’m sure you will.”

Turning the light out before opening the door so as to avoid any spillage, the two men stepped carefully over the still sleeping villagers. Easing the main door open to check that the guards had not returned, Bodie paused to shake the old man’s hand, before disappearing into the night.

***** 

Slowly and silently, Bodie made his way back to where he had left his pack. The naval bombardment, which had continued whilst he was in the hall, now ceased. It had been concentrated on the far side of the village as the Royal Navy tried to take out the Argentinian Pucara helicopters based there.

Deciding that it would be safer away from Goose Green, Bodie set off further into Camp. He would radio in when he’d found a reasonable place to hole up for the coming day.

***** 

Two evenings later found him lying below the crest of yet another hill, peering through the field glasses at the small farm in the valley below. There were lights showing from the house windows, sheep grazing in the paddocks, the occasional dog barking but no sign of any Argentinian presence.

There was no military reason for him being here. This side trip was purely personal. And though he knew that he was possibly endangering the people on the farm, he also knew that they would never forgive him if they found out he’d bypassed them. This was his parent’s farm. It was home.

Even so, he still exercised caution as he made his way down to the farmyard. Nothing much seemed to have changed since his last visit seven years before. Oh, the barn looked a bit more weathered but the tin roof of the farmhouse had obviously been freshly painted and it had glowed red in the sunlight. The paddock fences were all in good repair, the track, though pitted in places, would hold up to what little traffic there ever was and the sheep looked healthy. He realised that he’d never told Doyle anything about his childhood and, suddenly, he wanted to share this with him.

Stepping up onto the wooden porch, he stopped by the back door. Knocking here would immediately announce that he was no stranger. The front door was only ever used on high days and holidays.

The knock sounded preternaturally loud. The murmuring voices he’d heard inside stopped. Then there were footsteps on the wooden floor. The door opened hesitantly before being thrown wide open as he was recognised.

“Bill!”

William Bodie was a tall man in his early sixties and it was immediately obvious that Bodie was his son. They had the same dark blue eyes and quirky eyebrow but William’s hair was now white. He had the tanned skin and weathered appearance of most of the Islanders, spending, as he did, most of his days outside in the sometimes unforgiving climate. However, he wasn’t a native Islander, having come to The Falklands with the British Antarctic Survey, met a local girl, fallen in love with both her and the Islands and stayed. The traces of a Liverpool accent in his voice betrayed his origins.

Reaching out, he grabbed Bodie’s arm and dragged him into the warmth of the kitchen.

“Lizzie! Look who’s here?”

Bodie’s mother had been on the far side of the kitchen standing by the stove but had turned to the door as her husband went to open it edging towards the shotgun propped by the table. It was unusual in normal times to get unexpected visitors in the evening and these were not normal times. 

Now, as she recognised her son, she flew across the room and threw her arms around him. At five feet nothing, round as a butterball, the only resemblance to her son was her soft dark hair. Until she smiled, transforming a rather plain face, and Ray Doyle would have immediately recognised the smile.

Bodie returned the hug with enthusiasm, picking his mother up and swinging her round. She was flushed and laughing as he put her down.

“Bill! Oh, Bill! What are you doing here? Look at you. You look like a tramp.”

Bodie glanced down at the civilian clothes he’d once more changed into. They hadn’t been new to start off with and were now decidedly worse for wear after several days in the pack. He’d donned them on each of his incursions so as to mix with the Islanders but, if caught, he would undoubtedly be shot as a spy.

“Oh, Mum, I’ve only just come in and already you’re fussing.” He grinned.

“And am I not entitled to fuss when you show up in the middle of the night with no warning? It’s dangerous to be roaming around.”

Shaking his head, he allowed himself to be led over to the huge wooden table and ensconced in a chair. There was no way to convince his mother that he could look after himself, even after all these years, so he didn’t even try.

“We were just about to eat. You can tell us what you’ve been up to once you’ve got a decent meal inside you.”

Turning back to the stove, Lizzie began to dish up from the large pan. Breathing deeply, Bodie let the smell of mutton stew wash over him, bringing with it the memories of a very happy childhood.

He’d not told Doyle anything of his early years. He’d even allowed his partner to believe that they hadn’t been happy. There was no specific reason why he hadn’t spoken but it did help to maintain the mystery of ‘Bodie the Merc’. 

In fact, his childhood had been incredibly happy. The Islands were a wonderful place to grow up. Although there was a small school in Stanley, he’d had most of his education from his parents and over the radio. It was the very informality of his early schooling that had led his parents to the difficult decision to send him back to the UK for his secondary education. The alternatives were boarding schools in either Buenos Aires or Montevideo and some of his friends’ parents had opted for an education slightly closer to home. His father, however, had relatives in the Liverpool area and so, at the tender age of eleven, Bodie had been packed off to his uncle in Birkenhead to attend the local grammar school.

Whilst his aunt and uncle had done their best for him, they hadn’t had children of their own so were somewhat bemused by the wild child they’d promised to care for. Bodie had found it difficult to adapt to ‘civilisation’ and, eventually, at fourteen, he’d blagged his way onto a merchant ship half-hoping to be able to get back to The Falklands but ending up on the other side of the Atlantic in Africa.

Between tucking into the delicious stew, mopping up the gravy with home-made bread, he told his parents a little of his mission and filled them in on some of the highlights of his CI5 career to date.

“This Doyle. He looks after you alright?” asked his mother. 

Unaware of how his face softened when he spoke of Ray Doyle, Bodie answered. “He’s the best. Well … the second best man Cowley has. I wouldn’t ask for anyone else as my partner.”

His parents shared a look as they caught up on their son’s life. Whilst he’d returned home on an irregular basis, usually between career changes, he was no longer the child they remembered. And they had no idea what his life choices had done to him. They could only hope that he was happy. It had been obvious when he’d returned home before joining the Army that he would never settle on the Islands. Bodie would never be happy with the isolated, insular life they so enjoyed. 

Now they could hear the pride in his voice when he spoke of his work with CI5 and there was much more there when he spoke of Doyle. At that point, his mother gave up all hope of grandchildren.

Spending a couple of hours with his parents was a pure indulgence given the political and military situation but Bodie had needed to assure himself that they were okay. Fortunately the farm was out of the way even for The Falklands and so they’d only seen one Argentinian patrol, which had turned up one day to confiscate the 2-way radio. However, like most farms, they’d only handed over one of the sets. Several others were well hidden and were brought out to check in with neighbours as well as to listen to the BBC World News.

Turning down the offer of a bath and a bed for the night, tempting though the offer was, Bodie hugged both his parents, promising to let them know what happened and to come back for a proper visit as soon as the conflict was over. Then he walked out into the night.

Turning once, he saw his parents, arms around each other, standing in the lit doorway. He raised his arm in farewell, which they acknowledged before going back into the house.

***** 

Bodie spent the next seven nights criss-crossing Camp, checking one farm or small settlement after another. Using the ground eating stride taught him by the Paras that was shortly to become famous as ‘yomping’, he tried to observe as much as possible. But the terrain remained as difficult as ever and even the yomp wasn’t as ground eating as he’d hoped.

He avoided the few tracks as there was always the possibility of encountering an Argentinian patrol, particularly as they must, by now, be aware that the British task force was nearing the Islands. He also avoided any human contact. He’d taken huge but unavoidable risks in both Stanley and Goose Green so he observed from a distance.

It was whilst he was negotiating a particularly difficult section of land, stepping carefully from one uneven hillock to another, taking care not to step into one of the many streams, that he had the mishap which could have cost him dearly. If he broke an ankle or a leg this far from civilisation, he was a dead man. So he was lucky that the fall only cost him a soaked rucksack and a sodden radio. He’d been reporting in regularly but it looked as if he’d have to forego that as he only got static when he tried it out.

The soaked rucksack was more of a problem as it also ruined his few dry clothes and his remaining rations. He’d done his best to keep his feet dry but the land was sodden and with soaked feet and no dry spares, he knew he was running the risk of trench foot.

So far he’d eked out the dried rations with birds’ eggs but by the sixth night the hunger pangs were distracting. It was time to report in person.

*****

It took Bodie nearly another 72 hours to make his way to San Carlos Bay where the main task force landings were taking place. Still travelling only at night, he had to find his way not only through the unforgiving landscape but also the increased numbers of Argentinian troops. Then he had to avoid getting shot by his own side.

Deciding not to attempt sneaking through the British lines – he could hear Doyle’s snigger “You got shot by your own side!?” – he found an advance patrol, let them pass him and then stood up, hands held high to show he was unarmed. He coughed.

“Bloody hell!”

The Corporal swore as he heard the cough and swung round to see an exceedingly scruffy individual apparently surrendering. Bringing his rifle to bear, he commanded, “That’s it, mate. Leave those hands high,” before shouting, “Sarge!”

The sergeant in charge of the patrol had been ranging ahead but came trotting back when he heard the shout.

“Where did he come from?” he demanded.

“Don’t know, sarge. I would have sworn there was no one around,” puzzled the Corporal.

The two suspicious men walked round Bodie, who stood, seemingly relaxed, as they checked him out. The rest of the patrol pulled back to their position but remained alert looking away from the trio.

“Okay, then. Who the hell are you?” asked the sergeant.

“Acting Sergeant William Bodie, Special Air Service, on assignment,” Bodie snapped out, coming to attention, or as much as he could manage with a huge rucksack on his shoulders.

“One of ours, you say.”

“Yes, sarge.”

“I don’t suppose you’re carrying any proof of that?”

“’fraid not,” said Bodie. “Though the gear is all British. But I suppose if I was an Argentinian spy I’d be kitted out the same.”

“True. Very true. Well, I suppose we’ll have to take you in. Who were you supposed to report to?”

“Major James Wright, 3 Para.”

“And he’s here?”

“No idea, sarge. When I set off, he was still on board ship.”

“Alright. Let’s get back.” The sergeant indicated that Bodie should walk ahead of him.

Walking downhill, over rough ground, with his hands on his head and a heavy rucksack on his back, was not an experience Bodie would ever wish to repeat. 

On reaching the debarkation area, it only took minutes for the patrol to track down 3 Para and then Major Wright.

The sergeant saluted. “Sir. This chap says he’s one of yours.”

Major Wright had been studying a map, leaning against the bonnet of a Land Rover. He looked up, staring at the man standing to one side of the sergeant. He frowned.

“I don’t … er … think so, sergeant.” He paused, taking another look.

“Good God! Bodie! Is that you?”

“Yes, sir.” Bodie eased his arms down to his side, stretching his shoulders and back as much as possible with the rucksack still in place. “W A P Bodie reporting.” He saluted even though he was out of uniform.

“It’s good to see you, man. We’d begun to think you’d got lost. You were due to report in two days ago.”

“Sorry, sir. Lost my radio in a watery mishap.”

“So he’s definitely one of ours?” queried the patrol sergeant.

“He is indeed. Thanks for bringing him in.” The Major dismissed the patrol with a wave of his hand. With a last glance at Bodie, now standing at ease, the sergeant led his patrol back out into the camp. He would never understand special ops, never.

Major Wright turned his attention back to Bodie. “You’d better find yourself something to eat. We’re moving tonight. Up to Estancia Farm for the jump off to Mount Longdon. We’ll need your local knowledge.”

“I’m not sure how much help I can be, sir. It’s a long time since I did any cross country in this area.”

“Well, you’ve a better knowledge than the rest of us. I’ll see you back here at 1800.”

“Yes, sir.”

*****

In order to transport troops and equipment from San Carlos Bay to Estancia Farm, the task force had asked for and received help from local residents. There was a particular technique in driving across country on The Falklands that couldn’t be learned overnight. Turning up with tractors and old Land Rovers, the Islanders gave invaluable assistance over the next few nights, leading eventually to the successful assault on Stanley and the re-taking of The Falkland Islands.

Having landed on the north west shore of East Falkland, the British troops had to cross the whole island to reach Stanley. On the way, it would be necessary to root out the Argentinian troops already dug in on high ground around the port.

On the push from Estancia Farm to the top of Mount Longdon, several locals also volunteered to guide advance patrols. Bodie was also assigned to getting troops as close as possible to the Argentinian positions.

And the Falklands weather didn’t help. Icy fog settled on the low lying moorlands, making the trek even more difficult. The treacherous peat bogs dragged at unwary feet and, once wet, there was no way to get socks and boots dry. 

It was exhausting, intensive work carried out in the dark split apart by the flash of shells from both sides. As they neared the Argentinian lines, bullets tore through the night and flesh alike. It was difficult enough getting live troops up these hills; it was almost impossible to get wounded soldiers back to the farm for medical attention. Medics were out in the field too but couldn’t keep up with the demand for their skills.

It was an intense few days for Bodie and the rest of the Islanders. Sleep came in brief snatches either in a trench up the hill or the back of a Land Rover on the farm. Exhaustion nipped at his heels; he knew it wouldn’t be long before he could not go on. Yet go on he did. As long as he was needed.

***** 

The patrol had almost reached the brow of the hill when the shell hit. The explosion knocked them off their feet.

Bodie came to some while later. He had no way of knowing how long he’d been unconscious but it was still night, though he could see lighter sky in the east. It would not be good to be caught by daylight.

As he tried to move, he realised his legs were trapped. He twisted as far as he was able and then heaved the weight off. As it fell to one side, another shell burst lit the scene and he realised that the weight had been the head, shoulders and torso of one of the patrol. There was no immediate sign of the legs.

The light quickly faded whilst the noise of battle threatened to deafen him. Crawling back along the trench, he found two other members of the patrol. A quick check established that they were both dead. That left the final member of their small group.

They’d been spread out along the trench, each picking their way carefully over the ruts and roots so Bodie wasn’t surprised that he had to crawl a considerable distance to find the young solder.

As soon as Bodie touched the body, a moan told him that the solder was still alive. Every so often another shell burst gave him enough light to be able to examine the young man. Bodie couldn’t find any obvious injuries along the back and legs. He needed to turn him over but worried that to do so would do more harm and he really needed daylight to be able to properly assess any injuries. The occasional shell burst really wasn’t sufficient.

Knowing how close they were to the Argentinian lines, Bodie decided against calling for a medic. Instead he lay alongside the young soldier, offering his body’s warmth to try to stave off shock.

As the sun came over the horizon, Bodie examined the trench. There was nothing to distinguish it from dozens of others scattered across these hills, some natural, some dug only recently by enemy troops. But it did, at least, offer a degree of shelter from the elements as well as the enemy.

With a moan, the injured soldier recovered consciousness. Bodie immediately leant over him and whispered, “If you can, keep quiet. We are very close to the Argies. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” It came out as a breathy groan but it was clear.

“Good. I need to turn you over to see where you’re injured. Grit your teeth. This is gonna hurt.”

As gently as possible, Bodie turned the injured man. It was immediately obvious where he was injured. He had a large piece of shrapnel embedded in his lower abdomen. Although probably not fatal with immediate medical attention, Bodie knew that it was unlikely the man would survive the delay in getting help along with the shock to his system. But he would do what he could to keep him alive.

Using what material he had to hand, pieces of uniform from the dead, Bodie padded the wound. He knew enough not to attempt to remove the shrapnel. The padding would hold it in place and slow the bleeding. 

Each member of the patrol had been carrying a canteen of water and, by some miracle, they had all survived the explosion. Bodie gathered them together and used a little water to wet the young solder’s lips. Giving him water to drink would only exacerbate a gut wound.

The sun finally rose sufficiently to light most of the trench and it now touched the injured soldier’s face. Bodie gasped, almost recoiling in horror. Ray! The young man had an uncanny resemblance to Ray Doyle.

He was looking up at Bodie with surprised green eyes. His hair, what could be seen now that Bodie had removed his balaclava, his helmet having been blown off, was the brown that showed red highlights and there was even a hint of a curl around the ears. The shape of his face, his nose, his mouth were all reminiscent of Ray but, of course, when observed more closely it was only a resemblance. Bodie didn’t stop to think that his own exhaustion was also having an effect.

“What’s your name?” Bodie asked.

“Alan. Alan Bagley.”

“Well, Alan, Alan Bagley, we’re here for the day so I’ve made you as comfortable as possible. Let me know if there’s anything more I can do for you.”

Alan grimaced as a wave of pain swept through him.

Bodie continued, “I’m sorry I can do nothing for the pain. None of the remaining packs had any morphine.”

“I’ll manage,” Alan gasped with the stoicism so common amongst paratroopers. “Come and sit by me. Talk to me.”

And so Bodie found himself sitting in a trench on a Falklands hillside, supporting a dying boy, whilst he talked and talked. He told him tales of Africa, of the army, of CI5, of Ray. He tried not to make him laugh but he did make him smile. And, for a while, they both forgot where they were.

By late afternoon, as the light began to fail, Alan had been quiet for a while. Bodie stirred from the half waking, half sleeping fugue he’d fallen into.

“Come on, lad. Time to get you off this mountain.”

There was no reply. Sometime that afternoon, Alan Bagley had slipped away from him.

***** 

Later that night, Bodie staggered back into Estancia Farm. He’d made his way slowly down the hill, avoiding troops of both sides and was ignored as he staggered through the chaos of the jumping off point. He came to a halt just inside the doorway of a medical tent. He couldn’t go any further. As he sank to his knees, an orderly spotted him and called for aid.


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter Twenty One May 1993

Bodie’s voice was hoarse as he whispered the end of his tale.

“I kept telling them that it wasn’t my blood. That it belonged to Ray Doyle. Who’d died in my arms on Mount Longdon. But when they stripped off my uniform, there was my blood. A piece of shrapnel had lodged at the top of my thigh. I hadn’t felt a thing.”

Ray interrupted. “You never mentioned that you were wounded.”

Bodie paused, considering why he had never told Ray about the wound. 

“I think that by the time I got home, there was too much else I had to think about and it just never seemed important enough.” Having reached this stage in his story, he knew he had to continue. He had to get to the end so that Doyle would understand. Or at least he hoped he would.

“Having neglected the wound, it was infected. They did their best to sort it out but they really didn’t have the facilities at the farm. So they had me ferried back to San Carlos and then onto a hospital ship. I was out of my head by then. Don’t remember anything about anything until we were a week out at sea. One of the orderlies told me I’d been raving about the death of Ray Doyle.”

“But I’m not dead. I’m here. I was here in 1982.”

Sometime during the long tale, he’d moved up close to Bodie so his body warmth could be felt from shoulder to calf. Now Ray reached out and grasped Bodie’s hand.

“I know that, Ray. I think I knew that at the time. But, somehow, the trauma of my mission in The Falklands along with the death of Alan Bagley muddled in with the fever caused by the infection and my mind went wandering down all kinds of back alleys. When I finally came to my senses, I realised that I couldn’t go through losing you again. I had to keep you safe. It felt like I was a jinx. That’s why I ended our relationship when I got back to Blighty.”

“But, Bodie, that didn’t make sense in 1982 and it doesn’t make sense to me now.”

“I know that now, Ray. The counselling has helped me to sort it all out but I’m not sure that there is a great deal of sense to be found.”

“What counselling? Bodie, you’re still leaving chunks out.”

“Sorry. I want to tell you everything. I’m just not getting it out in the right order. I forgot to mention that Sophie persuaded me to go for counselling.”

Ray Doyle stared in amazement at the man who had always scoffed at any kind of psychological assistance even when Dr Ross had resolved the King Billy situation.

“Go on then. What did this counselling reveal?”

“Absolutely nothing.” Bodie almost laughed out loud at the stupefied look on Ray’s face. Before it could turn to anger; Ray still not being noted for his patience at what he perceived to be Bodie’s obtuseness, he went on, “The counsellor didn’t tell me anything. He guided me through events and feelings and gave me some tools to help me sort it all out. Oh, and he explained about PTSD – Post Traumatic Stress Disorder – how it is often related to battlefield trauma; how the behaviours become entrenched until it is almost impossible to ask for help. So many soldiers suffer from it but it is still seen as a weakness so it remains hidden.”

“I don’t understand. You went through Africa, the Paras, SAS and CI5. Nothing seemed to affect you. What was so different about The Falklands?”

Bodie could see that Doyle was making a real effort to understand what he was trying to convey. He tried again to explain what he’d worked out, what he was still working out.

“I think this time it was because it was my home. I know I hadn’t lived on the Islands since I was eleven but my parents still live there. I know lots of the Islanders. The whole Argentinian invasion felt like a personal assault. And then there was my whole experience on the Islands. I carried out my mission. I went beyond the mission specs and it turned into a nightmare with the death of Alan Bagley, my wound and the delirium that followed. It was only three weeks but it was probably the most intense period of my life.”

Bodie looked down at their clasped hands. It felt so very right to be sitting here with Doyle. He’d come to the end of his tale. Where they went from here was now down to how Ray reacted to what he’d heard. Bodie had destroyed their life together. Were the reasons for his actions now sufficient to recover anything? They’d both admitted to still being in love with each other. But that hadn’t been enough to hold their relationship together in 1982. Would the outcome be any different now?

*****

Doyle looked down at their clasped hands. It felt so very right to be sitting here with Bodie. He’d listened with something approaching awe to Bodie’s tale of heroism and terror. Trying to fit that in with the events on his return to the UK was starting to make some kind of sense. But he’d allowed Bodie to destroy their life together. Was there a way forward? It seemed that they’d remained in love with one another despite both of them burying it deep. Was it enough to build a new relationship.

“I’ll make a cup of tea,” said Doyle, reluctantly releasing Bodie’s hand. He stood up, looking back down at Bodie, who was still staring at his own hand. He didn’t want to move but he also couldn’t stay still a moment longer. Making a cup of tea was pretty banal but it gave him something to do and an excuse to move whilst he tried to work out what to do next.

***** 

As they sipped their tea, the sun slipped over the horizon, light creeping round the drawn curtains. The night had been lost to Bodie’s story. Neither had spoken for a while. Both lost in their own thoughts. It was when he caught Bodie smothering a mammoth yawn that Doyle moved.

Putting his mug on the coffee table, he stood, holding out a hand to Bodie.

“Come on. You’re knackered. And so am I.”

Blue eyes looked up at him. A tired little boy looked out of them.

“What do you want, Ray?”

“At the moment, I want you to get some sleep.”

The hurt look that cross Bodie’s face was fleeting but Doyle saw it nevertheless.

“I’ll go home then.” And Bodie started to get up from the couch, ignoring Ray’s hand.

“I don’t want you to go home, you idiot.” Ray grabbed hold of Bodie and helped him to his feet. “I want you to come to bed with me.”

Bodie’s expression switched from bewildered, hurt child to horny adult.

“To sleep, Bodie. Just to sleep. For now.” Ray drew Bodie into a hug and then turned to lead the way to his bedroom.

***** 

When Bodie awoke several hours later, it was as if the last ten years had never happened. He was lying on his side and a warm body was cuddled up behind him. The bony knee that rested between his own; the long fingered hand that lay on his stomach; the soft curls he could feel brushing against his back; the warm, snuffling breaths he could hear, all told him that his bed partner was Ray Doyle.

Not wanting to disturb Ray’s sleep, Bodie lay still and let his mind drift over the years: their years as partners and lovers, their work together on the Summerhayes case, their separation, Sophie and the boys, Megan. So many joys. So many sorrows. And all because his psyche had twisted and torn. He’d always considered himself to be a strong, pragmatic man, one not ruled by emotion, but his breakdown had led to the destruction of the one relationship he would have said meant everything to him.

Now he understood more of what he’d experienced and why he’d acted the way he had. He could only hope that Ray would also understand and that they could find their way back. They’d both built new relationships and memories and, hopefully, these would help to strengthen their new bonding.

He’d known all along that he was still in love with Ray but he’d buried that along with The Falklands experiences so that he would never know the pain of loss. But, of course, Ray had remained in his life as a work colleague and friend so his death would still have been painful. However, Bodie could now accept the illogic of his feelings and actions. Now knowing about PTSD and its effects, he could see why he had acted as he had and he deeply regretted what he had done. Not only in being parted from Ray for all these years but for his treatment of Sophie. She had deserved so much more than marriage to a man who loved someone else. She had been so amazing, helping him to find his way back. He wasn’t sure that he could offer that level of support if the same thing happened to him and Ray.

Pulling his wayward thoughts back, he realised that he’d been planning a future and he had no way of knowing whether or not Ray wanted the same thing. Sure they’d just slept in the same bed but Ray had always been compassionate and insightful and could just have been concerned about Bodie’s physical and emotional exhaustion. He’d have to wait until they were both awake before he could get answers to the questions teeming through his head.

***** 

Ray had actually been awake for the last half hour or so but had decided not to let Bodie know. He was enjoying the whole body cuddle he’d moved into quite naturally as they slept and he wasn’t sure how Bodie would react if he knew Ray was awake. That was so sad. Eleven years ago, he’d have known exactly how they would both have reacted. They’d lost so much. Would they ever be able to get it back?

So he kept his breathing deep and even, restrained his urge to stroke and let his thoughts wander.

He still hadn’t absorbed all of Bodie’s story. He’d learned more about Bodie’s childhood in one telling than in all the years they’d been partnered. He’d half convinced himself that Bodie had had an unhappy upbringing, which was why he hadn’t wanted to talk about it. Running away to sea at fourteen had seemed to confirm that belief. Now it seemed the opposite was true. Maybe Bodie had lived the rough, tough mercenary for so long that it had become the cover he used most often. And no matter how close they’d become, neither of them had offered much in the way of past history. They’d been all about the action, the excitement, living life hard and fast. There’d been no time for thinking about the past or the future. They’d lived purely in the present.

The last eleven years had taught Ray a great deal about what was truly important in life. His obsession with the murder of the McAllister family, he now believed, came out of his longing for his own family. To see a family destroyed in such a despicable manner went against all his own instincts. And the case had also ensured a continuity of contact with Bodie after the demise of CI5; a continuity he now realised he’d desperately needed even though he was building a life with Megan.

Being allowed to be part of Bodie and Sophie’s family as godfather to the twins had also meant a great deal to him, especially after Megan’s death. They were a lifeline to normality for him. Even if he hadn’t been in love with Bodie, he would have cherished the time spent with the family. 

He had loved Bodie. All these years he’d never stopped loving him. And it appeared the same was true for Bodie.

***** 

Bodie couldn’t lie still any longer but, just as he decided to turn over, the fingers lying on his stomach started to move. Slow, gentle circles started to imbue his skin with heat. Gradually the circles moved lower, the movement almost hesitant, then the fingers paused.

A breathy whisper in his ear. “Is this okay?”

“Yes, oh, yes.”

The hand moved again, closer, so close.

He felt lips moving across his shoulders, the soft brush of hair. Instinctively his hips twitched as he sought something more, something firmer.

Just he thought he was going to get what his body was yearning for, that same husky voice whispered. 

“Turn over, Bodie.”

As he did so, the sheets were pushed to the foot of the bed and he found himself lying side by side with a very naked, very aroused Ray Doyle. 

As he reached out, Ray stopped him, putting the tip of one finger to the middle of Bodie’s chest.

“Before we go any further, do you really want this?” Ray’s tone was diffident, his green eyes reflecting his uncertainty.

Bodie shifted so that his body pressed even closer to Ray.

“What d’you think?”

Ray grinned. He put one hand behind Bodie’s head and pulled so that their lips came together.

Whatever magic they’d once generated between them had certainly not dissipated in the intervening years. Starting off tentatively, Ray gradually increased the pressure. As Bodie opened his mouth, their tongues intertwined. Warm lips moved confidently.

Slowly but surely they re-learned each other’s bodies. Nothing too hard or too fast. It wasn’t even going to be the world’s greatest sexual encounter.

But it was just about perfect.

***** 

Several hours later, Doyle awoke. Bodie lay sprawled on his back, snoring slightly. Smiling, Doyle slid out of bed, heading for the kitchen to make tea. The old magic was still there in their physical relationship but they needed to talk. A mug of tea might just lubricate the start of the conversation.

Coming back into the bedroom with two mugs of tea, Doyle almost laughed out loud. Bodie was sitting in the middle of the bed, rubbing his eyes. With his hair standing on end and a bemused expression, he looked about five years old. But Doyle immediately revised that age upwards by several decades when Bodie realised he was being watched and his face took on a decided leer.

“Good morning,” he purred.

“Good afternoon,” Doyle responded.

“Eh?” Gone was the sexy man of only moments earlier. “I’ve just woken up.”

“We’ve only slept a couple of hours. It’s three in the afternoon.”

Doyle handed one of the mugs across, then sat on the end of the bed to enjoy his own.

Bodie was the first to breach the companionable silence.

“We need to talk.”

“Yeah, we do. But first finish your tea and then join me in the shower.”

“Sounds like a plan.” With a sudden surge of energy, Bodie was out of the bed, sweeping both mugs onto the cabinet and was halfway down the corridor before Doyle could blink.

“Come on, slow coach.” The shout galvanised Doyle into action and he followed.

***** 

One extremely satisfying shower later; one scratch tea of scrambled eggs on toast; two slightly bemused men sharing a sofa and no way to start the conversation they needed to have if they were to move forward together.

Giving a slightly nervous cough, Bodie finally gathered his thoughts together.

“I’ve done so much to hurt you over the years, wounding you, leaving scars. I can’t see how you can possibly forgive me.”

Doyle reached out. Their hands meshed.

“Scars mean that we’re alive, that we’ve lived. I loved you in 1982; I’ve loved you for the last eleven years; I’ll go on loving you. And if that’s too mushy for you, so be it.”

Bodie pulled him into a hug and muttered into his neck.

“I don’t care how mushy you get. I only care that you see a future for us.”

“I do. I always did.” Doyle was shaking. The dreams he’d buried years ago were now becoming a reality.

Bodie’s grip tightened. He’d gone through hell in the Falklands War and afterwards. He’d made decisions he’d believe were right at the time. He’d made mistakes. And he’d hurt the people he loved. But somehow he’d done something right in seeking help and it was now paying off with this man back in his arms.

***** 

The world re-started at 6.18pm on a bright May day in 1993. Not for everyone, but for William Bodie and Raymond Doyle the world they had lost so painfully years ago was now back on track.

A love forged in the fires of CI5 had survived despite all the obstacles they’d encountered and though tempered by tragedy, they were able to step out confidently into the rest of their lives.

 

End


End file.
